All the Proud Shall Be
by LadyCat
Summary: After the events at the end of Ootp, Harry takes stock and does some thinking. When he returns to Hogwarts for his sixth year, he finds that someone else has had a similar redefinition. HD, and will contain elements of Ds. NO HBP SPOILERS
1. Chapter 1

The good thing about History of Magic is that it offers a lot of time to think. Professor Binns' voice is soothing after so many years, a lullaby that most of the students no longer care about resisting. There are rumors that someone's got a quick-notes quill that dutifully copies every inane thing goblins and giants ever did, then sells copies to students dismayed to realize they've actually got homework to finish. Harry's always wanted to buy a set, but doesn't. For one thing, he doesn't know who sells them. For another, Hermione would kill him.

Hermione's quill is the only one currently scratching.

It's been a month since term began again, and Harry knows the rumors haven't stopped yet. Oh, there are no rumors about the horrific occurrence the Daily Prophet sometimes—and only sometimes—reports. Nor are there any about the magical community's niggling worry suddenly proving to be very real with Death Eaters escaped and Voldemort officially returned. No, they talk about _him_, of course. How quiet he is. How solemn and somber, as though he's given up on life. Ron's told him several people are worried he'll do a runner off the Astronomy tower before too long. Crack under the pressure. Sometimes, Ron gives him a sidelong look, like he thinks they might be right.

When he does, Harry wants to laugh.

Do they honestly think that all the things Harry's had to deal with over the last five years—that only _now_ is when it feels real? That only now, since they're utterly certain and scared, Harry has to be the hero?

Harry looks down at his blank parchment for a moment, studying the fine grains visible against the cream color. They make lines, almost like the books he'd learned to write his letters in, back during his muggle schooling. Sometimes he wishes those lines were back—it's hard to keep his hand neat and level, especially when he's desperate to finish those last few inches of parchment. Sometimes he wishes he was actually back _in_ muggle school. Would he have friends by now? Especially with Dudley off at Smeltings and unable to terrorize everyone into being horrid towards him, he could have actually had friends, by now. A life. A _different_ life.

The soft _whoosh_ of moving paper attracts his attention. Lavender is writing notes to Pavarti again, the two of them trying not to giggle and attract attention. The giggles are strained—they're good at denial, those two, but the latest reports put Death Eater activity near where Lavender's home is. She's being brave enough about it, Harry decides with the dispassionate cynicism of the jaded, forgoing her usual histrionics in favor of attempting to move on with her life. She isn't entirely successful, though; Harry can see it in her lips, which are chapped and not covered in their usual layer of sparkly gloss. Her eyes are red-rimmed almost constantly now, and they dart whenever she isn't forcing them to focus on something.

Their whispers fade after a moment, Harry's attention wandering. He studies the students around him, making notes of anything different or odd. He spends a lot of time watching, now. Watching all of it, really. He watches his classmates, his friends, his teachers, even the way the ghosts interact with each other. Back at the beginning of term, Hermione had mentioned how glad she was that Harry had let go of some of his anger from the previous year, and later, she'd complimented him on noticing some of the particular transformations Professor McGonagall was assigning them, that they had the potential to be used for defensive tactics. She'd been very proud of his deductions.

Now she watches Harry almost as much as Harry watches everyone else. She understands that this quiet is almost as bad as the anger had been. Worse, in a way, since the quiet is passive and Harry had never in his life been passive.

But she doesn't watch him in History of Magic. She's too busy trying to take down her notes without falling asleep like the rest of them.

She doesn't like his quiet, though Harry is coming to really appreciate it. It puts people off guard, being quiet. He's spent five years teaching people to expect certain things from him, and now that he's gone and changed they're often left scrambling to reestablish themselves. Watching them maneuvers is fascinating, since the tiniest gestures can give a lot away. People start babbling in his presence just to cover up the disquieting silence, and he learns loads of interesting things. He's learned that Neville is interested in Ginny by staying quiet and letting Neville ramble—and more importantly, that Ginny likes him back. How they'll ever get together, each so certain that the other doesn't notice them, Harry doesn't know. He isn't going to interfere—that's something he's promised himself, and he's going to keep this promise. No more jumping to conclusions, no more reacting instead of thinking. No more interaction unless there's no other choice.

It makes absolutely perfect sense then, that it's for Draco Malfoy that he breaks that promise.

The first time he'd seen Malfoy this year was on the train back to Hogwarts. Harry hadn't forgotten or forgiven Malfoy for the comments he'd made those last few days of term, but when he saw Malfoy sitting in his compartment all alone, he couldn't bring himself to say anything. It was Ron who had immediately bristled, demanding to know where Malfoy's cronies were. Ron had grown very tall during the summer; doing more and harder chores, as well as his intensive Quidditch practice had put a significant layer of muscle on his lean frame. He'd gone from endearing and goofy to large and substantial and he'd confessed to Harry not two days earlier that he couldn't wait to show Malfoy and his goons that he wouldn't be so easy to push around anymore.

Malfoy had reacted exactly as expected. He'd sneered and snapped out something suitably scathing and Harry had dragged Ron away rather than get into a fight before they'd even reached school. It had all been very normal, or at least, as normal as anything was with Malfoy, with or without Crabbe and Goyle as an immovable wall protecting his back.

Except, it hadn't been.

It takes Harry a while to really understand. It's a shock to the system, thinking things like this. He's spent the last five years of his life _not_ thinking anything of the kind. Rather the opposite, really, and it takes effort to yank his thoughts from their familiar patterns and direct them down new, strange paths. It takes careful watching and convincing before Harry can really believe that no, it isn't a hallucination. He's really seeing what he thinks he's seeing. It shouldn't be surprising, not really. A lot of things have changed during the summer. There's no reason those changes have to be exclusive to Harry and his friends.

But ... it's _Malfoy_.

He's still as awful as ever. The stupid pranks, the biting comments, the utterly sycophantic behavior with teachers who are 'marked' as having Death Eater leanings. At least, everyone else thinks it's the same as always because Harry hasn't bothered to enlighten anyone to his suspicions yet. Only Hermione is curious about it, partly because it's in her nature to be compassionate, but mostly because Malfoy doesn't call her mudblood that often anymore. Oh, when others are around or there's some status to be won or reputation to be gained, he's just as despicable as always. But _only_ then.

Harry once watched the two of them interact very civilly in the library, back during the third week of term, Malfoy looking almost timid as they worked out a puzzling bit of their potions assignment.

Yet the minute Millicent walked through the door, Malfoy was immediately sneering and calling Hermione a stuck-up mudblood.

Understandably upset at the sudden attack, Hermione had leveled her own scathing reply and left the library. Harry, however, had remained. And he'd seen that sneer fall off as if it'd never been, as soon as Millicent left again.

Even more important, though, was the moment Draco had finally noticed Harry tucked away in his corner, so quiet that only the librarian herself would have noticed him. The first reaction _should_ have been rage. Or disdain. Or belligerence. Something that reestablished Malfoy's utter superiority over Harry, in Malfoy's eyes at least. Instead, there had been a moment of tense anticipation—gray eyes as unreadable as a thunderhead—before Draco nodded, once, and left the library.

The Draco Malfoy who had spent five years of his life trying to make Harry's miserable should _not_ have done that.

Then again, the Harry Potter who had loathed Malfoy right back would have used the opportunity for _some_ kind of gain.

Being a sixth-year at Hogwart's means a great deal of homework. Being a pivotal member of one of the few successful War Councils currently established—the less said about Fudge's attempt, the better—swallows up most of the rest of Harry's free time, and his Gryffindor mates manage to snatch up the remaining crumbs to talk about and do the kinds of things sixteen year old boys are supposed to devote their energy towards. He has no interest in the last bit, but Ron and Seamus, in particular, demand some kind of interaction so Harry can't just slip off and think about things the way he wants to.

History of Magic, therefore, becomes his haven. His one place to let his mind turn over the bits and pieces he's collected, trying to put them together undisturbed and undisrupted.

For the first few weeks, Harry thinks about a lot of different things, much of it trivial, though some things aren't. Now, though, now Harry has just one topic to think about, one his mind returns to with increasing fervor.

Harry's decided, as of last week, that Malfoy is acting. His words are empty no matter how he pretends to hate, his gestures there only to keep up appearances, his expressions a mask he wears. Harry knows this because he _knows_ what Malfoy's hate feels like. He remembers the loathing all too well, that feel of ice and ichor in Malfoy's eyes and the absolute sincerity in his voice. All of that is missing now, no matter what anyone else might think.

Obviously something has happened. Something drastic enough to make Malfoy rethink everything he's ever thought about.

Oh, he could be playing a game, of course. Something to throw Harry off, to make him doubt and mistrust so that the son of Voldemort's most powerful Death Eater can help pull off some devious plan. But Malfoy really isn't the best choice for a plan like that: he's too impatient, far too interested in the end result and the potential gains it offers rather than the careful application of each step. Harry's often surprised that Malfoy is as good at potions as he is, since that's a discipline that one has to love for its own sake, not just for the end results.

No, Harry's pretty sure that if there _is_ some kind of game going on, it's nothing Malfoy's aware of. Or maybe it's that Malfoy isn't playing with him, Harry. Something has made Malfoy change almost as fundamentally as Harry's changed—he can see it every time he looks at Malfoy, whether or not he's wearing his sneering mask. There's something quietly desperate about him, a kind of muffled screaming that makes Harry's stomach twist. It reminds him of the small animals Dudley used to torture, the way they'd look when they were cornered and knew it.

It doesn't take a leap of genius to figure out what's the mostly likely thing cornering Malfoy. _Why_, though, that takes more information than Harry has to try and piece together.

Behind him, Dean starts muttering under his breath. It's not a loud sound, but since it's almost time for class to end, it shoves him out of his contemplation. Bugger. Sighing, Harry stares at the random lines he's drawn onto his parchment, wrestling with his thoughts in a way that's become all too familiar. He's made himself a promise. No more interactions—particularly _uninvited_ interactions—unless someone's life is at stake. Unless he has no choice. Malfoy's life is not at stake, no matter how brittle he's started looking in the past week, and Harry certainly has a choice. He isn't going to get involved. There's no reason for him to get involved!

Absolutely none.

And when Malfoy makes a big production at lunch about how he's got to go to lake and fetch something for the absent Snape, Harry has no reason to mutter something to Hermione and follow.

He wishes 'no reason' would actually stop him.

Malfoy's already at the edge of the lake by the time Harry catches sight of him. There's a healthy distance between them, enough that Malfoy _probably_ isn't going to notice he's being followed, though Harry isn't sure. He isn't sure Malfoy won't notice—and he isn't sure he doesn't _want_ to be noticed. Heading towards a hillock that looks like it might offer him some screening, Harry studies Malfoy. He knows that boys aren't supposed to be interested in things like clothes or even aware that different sets of them exist, but Harry's become very good at picking things up from someone's attire. Malfoy is always immaculate, attention to his appearance going far beyond fussy, the way Pavarti is, and into obsession. Malfoy _has_ to look good. He must always sit up straight, his posture perfect, his robes pristine, every gesture controlled. There's a practiced feel to his movements that he never loses except when he's flying—and sometimes not even then. It's as if he's spent his whole life containing himself, moving his body into patterns he's been taught, instead of where his limbs take him.

That's all gone, now. Malfoy is slumped, head down so that his straight blond hair falls into his eyes. The hem of his robes are ragged near his left leg, as if he'd torn them and not immediately had it fixed, and Harry remembers that there'd been a spot of something on Malfoy's tie before he left the great hall.

All of these things are tiny, insignificant details that Harry's pretty sure no one else would have cared about, even if they'd noticed. To Harry, though, after several weeks of compulsively watching Malfoy, these are incredibly significant.

Significant enough that Harry slips from his hiding place without really thinking about it, falling into step beside Malfoy.

"I'm looking for a weed. You'll help. I can't remember the name, just that it has purple edges and white flowers when it's blooming, and it should be blooming around now."

It's not 'hello, how are you', but it's not 'get away from me, Potty', either, so Harry thinks that this is a good thing. "Okay. It's supposed to be by the lake?"

Malfoy nods. He's careful not to look anywhere near Harry, but his body has angled slightly to his right anyway. "Yes. Professor Snape says that it comes out the most in autumn, when it's humid, but not actually raining."

That certainly describes this particular September day, the air thick with wet not yet condensed into droplets. It's cool, too, and Harry is glad his robes are layered and that Mrs. Weasley took him shopping over the summer. His jumper is very warm.

Malfoy, he notices, is shivering slightly. His hands are clenched into loose fists and there is something white over the first knuckle—a scar, maybe? It doesn't look new, but Harry's pretty sure it wasn't there last term. He has a sudden urge to take Malfoy's hands between his own and rub them warm to see if they'll pink up or stay that pale, almost albino color; he ignores it.

"I don't see any here," Harry says after searching for a while. To be honest, he's not looking very closely but Malfoy—surprisingly—is looking hard enough that Harry doesn't feel guilty. Well, much. And just why is Malfoy doing as he's told, anyway, when there are lackeys about to do the work for him?

"Professor Snape said to start by the lake, but that it could be anywhere between here or the edge of the forest." Malfoy hesitates—Harry can _feel_ it, the air trembling around them both—and darts a glance out of the corner of his eye. If Harry hadn't been looking, he's certain he would have missed it, since Malfoy's pivot towards the forest comes instantly afterwards. But he did see it. He knows he did. It takes Harry a full second to restart his body and catch up, and by then, Malfoy is speaking again. "Professor Snape said that ... I can trust you."

There's something so incredibly worn down in Malfoy's voice that Harry doesn't bother with the surprised spluttering. He's not surprised. "You can," he says instead, because it's true. For all he's gone quiet and thoughtful, he's still a Gryffindor.

Malfoy's eyes move, again so fast that Harry almost misses it, then focuses on the ground before them and nods. "He says I should talk to you. He's not—he doesn't like mentoring very much." A hint of humor, as deprecating as Harry remembers but with a thread of affection that's stunning to hear, colors Malfoy's words: "He doesn't really like children at all. He's a good teacher, and better still at maintaining order, but give him something worse than a romance gone rotten and he stammers more than Longbottom."

Harry can picture that very easily and snickers. He doesn't _like_ Snape. He probably never will and he knows how mutual it is, but this past summer he's finally learned to respect Snape, for both what his is and what he does. That's helped some of the animosity between them to ease—though Harry is amused to learn just how much Snape respects him, in turn. He wouldn't have sent Malfoy to him, otherwise. "I think Professor McGonagall does better that way, but not by much."

The forest looms before them now, shadows chasing each other at their heels. As they walk, Malfoy moves closer and closer to Harry. Not close enough to accidentally touch, but if Harry were to swing his arm a little, he could. Harry thinks about edging away, putting more distance between them, but doesn't. He had forgotten that he's got a good two or three inches on Malfoy's height, now—_finally_—and that amuses him. It looks almost like ...

The soft, wet sound of Malfoy swallowing distracts Harry. Malfoy's throat is very pale, the Adam's apple creating odd shadows over the fragile skin. "You've been staring at me, Potter. Every chance you get."

"You're pretty." Harry has _no_ idea where those words come from, but the way they make Malfoy start and swing around to look at him for the first time are worth it. He stops, waiting for Malfoy to do something, then shrugs. "And I stare at just about everybody now."

The barest memory of Malfoy's customary smirk passes over his lips. "I noticed. But you, ah." The remembered confidence vanishes again, too weak to be sustained, and Malfoy bits his lip. It makes him look absurdly young and innocent—Harry isn't sure if he's either. All he knows is that this Malfoy is without masks and sincere. "But it's me you watch the most. It's me you—see."

See? Harry doesn't know what he sees, not really, because _seeing_ implies more action, more giving of himself, than he wants. He just watches, sitting in the background, passively observing life as it tumbles around him. He isn't—he doesn't—

Malfoy's eyes aren't meeting his.

That makes Harry pause. He prides himself on his new observational skills, doesn't he? It's an effort, but he stops automatically reacting, instantly defensive, and _looks_. Sees the way Malfoy's body is tense, pointed chin thrust out slightly. Malfoy's voice is level, but Harry thinks there was maybe a note of challenge—no, of _pleading_? Turning that over in his mind, Harry studies the down-turned face, long lashes hiding the normally direct gaze that Harry realizes then that he almost misses.

If this is a challenge, it's a kind that Malfoy's never directed at him before.

"Yeah," Harry says eventually. "I see."

Nodding, Malfoy lets the faint hints of aggression slip from his body. He's almost slumping now, posture ruined into the kind of slouch that only a depressed Neville can truly achieve, and he's still angled towards Harry instead of away. Well, he is for a moment, anyway, before he drops down in between two roots at the bottom of a tree, wound so that the perfect niche for sitting is created. He glances up at Harry and then pointedly shifts over until there's enough space for another boy.

If those boys don't mind touching.

Harry is out of his depth right now, but that usually goads him into daring. He considers other options only briefly before sitting next to Malfoy, thighs and shoulders touching. "Malfoy?"

"Don't ... don't call me that." The shudder is severe, jerky enough that there's no way that it's faked. "Draco. My name is Draco. I'd say it was a pleasure, but I suppose it's a bit late for that."

"Okay. Draco." Harry offers a lopsided smile. "That sounds really weird, you know."

"Don't expect me to call you 'Harry' now. I can't get out of the habit of insulting you."

Harry nods, because there isn't anything else to say. Malfoy—Draco—is sitting next to him, leaning against a surprisingly comfortable tree, and warning him that he will not be calling Harry by his given name, for fear of blowing his cover. After being told by Snape to talk to Harry, which means that Dumbledore knows and—several things click into place with a suddenness that leaves Harry feeling very stupid.

"You met him, of course," he says softly.

Mal—Draco—shudders again, clasping his hands together in his lap until the knuckles turn white. "You should be saying 'I told you so'. Or otherwise rubbing my nose in it."

"Nah. Ron'll do that for both of us, when you finally tell him." It's oblique reassurance, but since Draco isn't leaping to his feet and tossing hexes to keep Harry quiet, he figures it works. "Er. That is, I'm assuming you aren't playing double-agent?"

"No. Oh, no." Draco's laugh is bitter, his finger's tightening around each other even more until his knuckles are almost creaking. He stiffens when Harry reaches out and touches him, but submits easily as his hands are taken and kneaded, fingers going limp again Harry's. "No, after careful consideration I've decided that spying is beneath me. My... _reaction_ convinced me of that, long before Snape tried his hand."

"Right, then." Harry's mind is racing. He's discovered that he is a good thinker when he stops being a prat, and the answer comes easily enough. "When's your birthday?"

"Early January." Draco seems to be made of layers of tension because as Harry rubs and then starts absently massaging Draco's hands, he can feel yet more stress leave the body beside him. Draco's almost leaning on him now, too lost in his own thoughts to realize it. Harry's very surprised to discover he likes it. "I'm supposed to go home for Christmas and not return."

Draco's fingers—so easy for him to be 'Draco', all of a sudden—are long and bony. The heavy ring on his middle finger slips whenever Harry touches it, just a little too big. That seems fitting, oddly. The tips of his fingers are callused from playing Quidditch, as are the palms. There are several scars on his right hand, though none on his left. One feels like a knife wound and Harry hates that he thinks he knows what that feels like. The Dursley's had set him to chopping long before his body was coordinated enough to handle the large knife Aunt Petunia had insisted he use. Harry traces over each wandering path, Draco's left hand resting on his thigh, waiting its turn.

"You aren't, of course," he says, following blue veins under very fragile skin. Draco shivers as his inner wrist is examined but makes no objections. "Snape likes you, and Dumbledore would never turn you away."

"Snape says he'll find an excuse to keep me here over the holidays," Draco agrees. "And if he can't, Dumbledore will hide me away until after I'm seventeen. They can't legally touch me, then."

Harry smiles, because he understands just how futile that thin, legal protection is. Voldemort plays by no one's rules, while Dumbledore is hampered by trying to be at least mostly legal. But he has no doubts that, push to shove, Dumbledore will do whatever is necessary to protect Draco.

Harry's no longer quite so enamored with Dumbledore. He still cares for him greatly and trusts him to lead the Order—but Harry doesn't do blind faith anymore. Not for anyone. Thinking about that always makes him bitter and a little sad, remembering _why_ he's purposefully distanced himself from the adults he used to trust implicitly. He doesn't like to, so he looks down at the hand resting in his own. Draco's right hand is placed in his lap, the left picked up for the same treatment. There aren't any scars on this one, and the calluses are smaller, the skin softer. There's another ring, the metal twisting in a delicate circle as it rests snugly against Draco's skin, which smells faintly of the potion they'd been making in class yesterday with their substitute, Professor Decant.

"I'm not going to tell you what happened," Draco announces suddenly. "Maybe not ever."

Harry lays his palm flat against Draco's, weaving their fingers together. His skin—not as dark as some—is very brown against Draco's pallor, each digit slightly thicker and larger. The nails aren't quite as well taken care of, but Harry can see ragged tips where a nail's been bitten nearly to the quick. At least he doesn't do that, he thinks. Around them, the light is dying. They're missing classes and probably worrying their friends—well, Harry's friends—sick, but he knows no one will come looking for him until after suppertime. Dumbledore allows him this much freedom, if he uses it sparingly. "Did I ask you to tell me?"

There's something _arch_ about his voice. The tone is assured and even amused and nothing like how Harry's voice _should_ sound like. But it makes Draco look at him again, eyes far too close and far too wide, his body limp against Harry's, and it makes Draco's voice go breathy: "No. You didn't."

"Well, then. Nothing to worry about."


	2. Chapter 2

Of all the possible repercussions, Harry never dreams that he'll give Malfoy back his fire.

It isn't his first thought, or even his third—but by lunch time, it's all Harry can think about. He spends his morning in a daze, ignoring Hermione's repeated queries as to where he'd been the night before. He can't tell her, not when morning's light brings a host of doubts and uncertainties. This is _Draco Malfoy_, the boy who'd spent the last five years making Harry's life miserable in ways adults couldn't. The son of Voldemort's most powerful supporter, put into Azkaban by Harry himself. Even if it's believable that he'd switched sides—and now that the moonlight is gone, it isn't—Harry is the last person he'd tell. Malfoy is too prideful to allow his rival such power over him, so it has to be something else. It has to be. Filled with doubts and second-guesses, Harry enters the Great Hall certain that Malfoy will do _something_ to make Harry hurt.

He doesn't.

Instead, he does something much worse.

Harry watches, wide-eyed and stunned, as the _true_ Draco Malfoy reappears. No mention is made of last night's conversation and Harry himself is never a target—but everyone else is. Malfoy is effervescent in his cruelty, the sincerity missing all term now dripping from each hateful taunt. No one is safe, not even the Slytherin first years who are reprimanded for not doing their part. He attacks until finally McGonagall orders him to stop, and then Malfoy aims sneers and glaring, silent smirks until a first year Hufflepuff looks as though she's about to cry. It's breathtaking, really, the differences Harry has noted now glaringly obvious for everyone to see. All of Hogwarts seems stunned, even the Gryffindors unable to defend themselves as the rug beneath their collective feet is yanked out.

Harry isn't stunned. Harry is _hurt_. He shouldn't be, but no matter how he tries to convince himself that last night was a fluke or a trick, a traitorous part of him still wants friendship. He doesn't want to be hated or called a rival, particularly from someone who'd made that decision without ever really knowing who Harry is. To be offered a chance to at least put the enmity behind them—Harry _wants_ that, and to have it be so utterly denied hurts him.

As they leave for their afternoon classes, Malfoy meets Harry's eyes for the first time—and that's when Harry starts believing that _he_ is responsible for Malfoy's returned fervor. There's something inside Draco's cold grey eyes that says _You. You did this. It's your fault._ Hermione would say this is nonsense and Harry takes on too much guilt over things he cannot control. But Harry does not tell Hermione anything as she speculates over Malfoy's performance. He only thinks it, hating that he's caused his friends yet more pain.

Malfoy loses none of his momentum throughout the day. He's vicious again, terrorizing the first years, while that familiar drawl sends the older students into tense rages. His pranks, never as effective as the rest of the Slytherins have always prided themselves for, become down right devious. Even Snape seems to despair of ever teaching a lesson without interruption, though he takes barely ten points off Slytherin during the whole week, while docking Harry fifteen his first day back.

This is what he gets, Harry tells himself bitterly, staring at carvings not quite removed from his desk. This is what happens whenever he tries to touch someone. Either he hurts them, and the list of those Harry's hurt or worse flows through his mind with practiced self-loathing—or they hurt him. Because Harry _liked_ touching Malfoy like that, enjoying the way his hand had been so limp in Harry's, trusting that Harry wouldn't hurt him. It hadn't been sexual, then. Harry doesn't have a word for what it was, outside where Malfoy's voice had been soft and free of arrogance. At night, though, that casual exploration becomes something different, bleeding into dreams of locks burnished silver by moonlight, rings that seem to glow when he touches them, and Harry almost always wakes up sticky.

For one day, he sulks, hurt and trying not to feel betrayed that a Malfoy has been a Malfoy, like the scorpion who can't help but sting his ride, even when he's in the middle of a river and will certainly drown. He should _know_better—and actually, he does know better. That thought pulls him up short, breaking his upset to trigger habits he spent a great deal of time forming over the summer. He starts thinking again, realizing that of all people, Malfoy is the least trustworthy of any Harry's ever met. Yet Harry _had_ trusted him that night. He'd ...felt something. A sense of connection that Harry realizes he _craves_, desperately. He wants that Draco, who is not an enemy and might be a friend. The one that understands certain things, breaking through Harry's self-imposed isolation so effortlessly.

The one whose skin felt warm and smooth against Harry's fingers.

Harry knows his sanity is less than steady, but he doesn't think he hallucinated everything. There has to be a reason for it—and another reason as to why it's helped Malfoy revert back to type so soon afterward. So he stops. He stops simply _feeling_—betrayal and lost and hurt so deep he can't sense the bottom of it---and starts looking. Watching. Listening. Not making assumptions. He keeps his mind blank for two solid days, spending every moment he can watching Draco Malfoy—and comes to two very startling conclusions.

The first is that, again, Malfoy only plays when there are others to watch, particularly members of his own house. He is clearly posturing for his housemates, but more subtly than before. He isn't going through the motions. This is Malfoy at his most winning, as far as the Slytherins are concerned. Which is why whenever things are peaceful—or as peaceful as a school full of noisy, boisterous children ever really can be—Malfoy is aloof and arrogant in his reserve.

The second thing Harry notices is that Malfoy's jabs and pranks are always timed very, very carefully. Almost surgically precise, really, and so calculated that Harry wonders why no one else—not even the professors—sees it.

Hogwarts isn't really under siege, but sometimes it feels that way. On Saturday, two days after his conversation with Draco, it's leaked that there's been a major attack. It's probably the first open attack of the War, though not the first blood spilled. The victims are three muggle families—parents and young children and even a grandmother—their bloodless bodies laid out in arcane symbols. Hermione says the muggle press is calling it Satanic, the skin around her mouth tight and tinged with green for days. She studies book after book and repeatedly asks him if Dumbledore has said anything, but Harry has no information for her. Dumbledore probably does know what the killings mean, which spells Voldemort has used—but Harry doesn't ask. He hates being in the dark, especially when his ignorance is due to adults who want to 'protect' him, but he doesn't want to know this. He doesn't want Hermione to know, either. She's already frightened enough.

The rumors over the weekend and then the Daily Prophet's reluctant confirmation on Monday send a shockwave through the school. For all that they all believed that Voldemort is back, badder than ever, this is the first time it's _real_. Not just whispers from their parents or unconfirmed rumors that every knows are always an exaggeration. This is bodies lying cold on a slab somewhere. Muggle bodies, yes, and many of purebloods—from all four houses, interestingly enough—are disdainful because of it. But there are too many children of muggles in Hogwarts for it to be dismissed. To many children worried that _their_ parents might be next.

The professors do what they can to help, but most students don't know how to handle themselves. Many become despondent, locked in their own fearful world and violently shunning any attempts to draw them out. Girls tend to burst into tears at random moments, while the boys, those not curled into turtle-like denial, snap and snarl at each other uselessly. Adrenaline is pumping hard through all of them, and only a few—Harry and his friends in particular—know how to channel that energy before it drives them mad.

D.A practices continue. Meetings are usually silent and grim, spells flaring in truer, more brilliant colors as their fear gives them strength.

Harry's never been particularly anonymous at Hogwarts. He's been loathed and loved, sneered at and honored, but he's never really been _wanted_ before. Not with the anxious, childlike desperation for the Boy Who Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, who has to do so again. It's _horrible_. Half the school watches him anxiously, afraid to come near him, but afraid to go for too long without confirming that he's still there. Sometimes students run up to him and touch him—for luck, a few tell him, blushing. Others approach with offers of advise or, worse, requests for reassurance. It's particularly bad with the first years, who walk around in a wide-eyed state of perpetual fear. They look to _him_ for safety. Not their professors, but _Harry Potter_.

The mountain of mail he gets and refuses to read only makes it worse.

Harry ignores it as best he can, but it's hard. He's not a savior or a hero, though telling people that is futile. He's just a boy who has a little bit of Fate mucking up his life, and parents who were willing to die for him. It's not a prize every kid should beg their mum for, really.

He stops responding to almost everyone except his Gryffindor mates and his teachers. It's easier being thought of as an arsehole, either annoying or disappointing his public, rather than the triumphant hero just biding his time, promising that everything will be fine. It _isn't_ fine, and it won't be. People are going to die, people are going to get hurt, and there's nothing anyone can do about it—that's what war _means_. So Harry finds corners to sit in, staring pointedly at people who get too close—and thinks that maybe he's starting to understand the method to Draco Malfoy's madness.

It isn't a particularly _nice_ method, Harry acknowledges. Some moderation or more careful choosing of targets couldn't hurt, but Harry's fairly certain that Draco—and it's Draco again—can't use moderation or subtlety at the moment. He's too terrified. The difference between Draco and the rest of the students, however, is that Draco _knows_ what he's frightened of. Like Harry, he's not afraid of You-Know-Who, the nameless specter that's treated like some kind of ultimate boggart.

Draco is scared of _Voldemort_.

It's an odd feeling, knowing that not even Ron and Hermione truly understand the way Draco does.

They have Care of Magical Creatures that morning, held near the front doors of the castle in a tacit effort to reassure the students that they're still safe. Harry is leaning against the wall, his expression sullen and forbidding to keep anyone but Ron or Hermione away, and he avidly watches as Draco works. He's a master at provocation and cruelty—although Harry doesn't think going after Parvati is a wise choice. She's the worst of the criers, and has only stopped hiccuping an hour before. Harry doesn't understand how she has any tears left, after silently crying for days on end, but each day dawns with reddened eyes that are glassy and thick with yet more.

But she doesn't start weeping again, this time, and neither do any of the other girls. Draco needles and insults, careful to keep to just-this-side of reasonable, until the girls are so angry that there are no tears in their eyes at _all_, too busy glaring at Draco and the Slytherins following his lead. Parvati starts snapping back, the bite in her voice a welcome change from the whimpering quaver it's been, and a few of the other girls join her after a moment. Their cheeks are all red, now, their spines straight again—Lavender even begins surreptitiously straightening her hair, finger-combing lanks of it that haven't been brushed in at least two days.

When he's gotten the Gryffindor girls out of their slump, all of them now trading jabs with an eager Pansy, Draco turns his attentions onto the boys. Harry is _very_ impressed when he bypasses Ron and Seamus. They make much easier targets, both so full of frustration and fear and a burning need to act that they're moments from pummeling anyone unlucky enough to be in their way. They're also the more _dangerous_ targets, as either could start the kind of brawl Harry is fairly certain that Draco is working to avoid. So Draco eyes them both, smirking, until they're bristling and growling—and then turns his attention to Neville Longbottom.

Neville is another that's changed a lot over the past summer. He still doesn't like fighting at all, but he's practiced until he's scarily good at it. The increased appreciation and praise—Harry lavishes it on him during D.A. meetings—has given Neville a boost of confidence and poise that makes most of Draco's taunting roll right off his back. Not all of it, of course. That doesn't suit Draco's purpose. But Draco has chosen Neville for a reason, and by the time Neville starts defending himself, all the Gryffindor boys have rallied around him as their leader—and Neville, who hates bullies almost as much as he hates being the center of attention, keeps them reigned in. He won't allow them to fight for him, something Draco has obviously banked on: just when it looks like Neville's losing control, Draco draws Hagrid's attention, his authority enough to quash the fight before it occurs.

By the end of Care of Magical Creatures, the sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins are acting almost normally. Angrily, but that's normal too. They are talking animatedly, tossing out insults that sound relieved to Harry's ear, as if they are grateful to be doing something that doesn't have to do with Voldemort or death. It's astonishing. In a good way.

"Harry, why are you grinning like that?" Hermione's tone isn't as accusatory as it probably should be, surprise adding shrillness.

He wonders just how pronounced a smirk he's currently wearing. "Nothing," he says, and turns the conversation to the upcoming test in Charms. Hermione isn't fooled—she knows him too well for that. But she knows he won't explain himself, either, and sighs as she lets herself be distracted.

Harry doesn't stop smiling, not even when Hermione dashes down the hall to help a first year pick themselves up after an instantly recognizable Malfoy Tripping Jinx.

He knows that he has no reason to feel so proud of Draco. It's not like they've made secret plans, working out just how annoying Draco can afford to be, and what lines he should never cross. Draco isn't doing this _for_ Harry, after all. But Harry can't seem to stop himself from smiling at the oddest times, and it takes real effort not to send those beaming, grateful smiles Draco's way. He compensates by making sure he and Draco tussle together at least once a day.

He isn't quite sure who starts the first fight, or which body launches itself forward initially—just that his throat is raw from shouting and there is suddenly a bony shoulder pressed into his chest, twisting the skin painfully, while Draco pants into his face, eyes wild and rolling as they fall to the floor. It's loud and messy, that first time, with arms that swing too wide and bodies that shove together without any grace or control.

It's also magnificently fake.

"Finally," Draco whispers as they roll together, grinning as Harry looms over him. "Thought you'd never figure it out."

That almost shocks Harry out of his desire to fight—but as aggression leaves, something else fills its place. He doesn't understand it or recognize it, but it fills him up so completely that he can't resist it. He _wants_ this. Wants the chance to press his body into Draco's, turning his laugh into a snarl. "Well, you're not very clever," Harry whispers back as he yanks Draco to his feet and prepares to toss him against the wall. "Or you would've picked _actual_ hints."

Students circle around them, hollering, which prevents Draco's reply—that time. It becomes a game with them, how often can they sneak in bit of real conversation underneath the insults the others expect of them. Sometimes Draco adds instructions or warnings, but mostly they're gleefully taunting each other even as they tumble around in a mockery of the wrestling moves Dudley loved to watch and imitate. Harry loves it more than he thinks he probably should. It satisfies something inside him, and from the fierce way Draco grins, everyone else sure it is just another form of insult, he feels the same.

They hurt each other without meaning to, of course, but the bruises are usually minimal—they instinctively choose the widest hallways or most uncluttered rooms—and are useful in convincing their friends that the fights are real. Ron is delighted with him and it takes some fast talking on Harry's part to convince him and the other Gryffindors _not_ to help him 'give it' to Malfoy. Hermione is thoroughly disapproving, which is useful as she stops watching Harry quite so much.

Oddly, it's Ginny who is the most speculative about the fights. Not because she doubts their sincerity, but because none of the teachers seem to be as upset as they should be.

"Don't you think it's off?" Ginny asks. It's nearly ten o'clock and the four of them plus Neville are lounging comfortably in front of the fire in the common room, books over their laps as they pretend to study. "Snape caught you that last time, didn't he?"

Harry nods, watching the way the flames flicker: yellow, then orange, then yellow, with only the barest hint of true red at the base. There's a bruise on the inside of his wrist, right where blue veins branch into three distinct directions. Harry absently rubs it, wondering vaguely why the skin doesn't feel soft enough or thin enough.

"Well, Snape usually bends your ears back for going after his precious Malfoy. How come you only got ten points and another week of detentions?

Ron waves that off. He's still grinning from ear to ear, but it's lost some of the maliciousness now that Draco isn't in front of him. "Oi, Ginny! Don't jinx it now, or Harry'll never get the chance to pound Malfoy's face again."

"Ron! Harry should _not_ be fighting," Hermione says severely.

"Why, cause he could get in trouble? Ginny's right, the teachers are going easy on him. And don't pretend you weren't cheering with the rest of us when Harry gave him that black eye."

Ron's exuberance makes Harry feel slightly ill. He hadn't meant to hurt Draco that much, face and elbow colliding before either of them realized just where their limbs had landed. Next time, Harry decides, no more mud fighting, no matter how intriguing the thought of messing Draco's hair is. He wants to go up and see Draco in the infirmary so badly that he can hardly sit still in his chair. His thighs tense up with the need to go, go, go.

"That's not what I mean," Ginny insists, leaning forward so her hair tumbles down her cheeks, almost black in the firelight. "Shouldn't the professors be more upset that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are having fist-fights in the corridors? Just listen to it. _Harry Potter_ caught in a fist fight. Multiple! It even sounds wrong, and all they're doing is giving minimum punishments and mostly ignoring it."

She's right, of course. Snape may seethe and grind his teeth when he sees bruises on Draco's pale skin and act even more vicious to Harry during potions, but the fights he disregards as much as possible. So does McGonagall, though Flitwick almost levitates himself, he's so angry when they disrupt the fourth year's charms class accidentally. His punishment is no worse than the others, though, and Harry realizes suddenly that the next few weeks are booked solidly with detentions.

Detentions to be administered by either Gryffindor's or Slytherin's head of house.

_With_ Draco. Snape in particular is very vocal in reminding them of that, though McGonagall occasionally stresses it as well.

The fire pops, sending up a shower of sparks that makes Harry blink. He's not entirely certain he likes the professors arranging things quite so neatly, but he isn't disappointed by it. The dreams that started the first night after his conversation with Draco haven't left him yet. Every night, Harry experiences something that's disturbing because it's so very _normal_. Or at least as normal as he can ever get. His subconscious comes up with all kinds of things Harry wants to do to Draco: touch his hands again, reexamining each and every flaw until they're memorized; his arms and legs should be subjected to the same scrutiny and most especially his mouth. Harry _wants_ Draco's mouth, though whether he wants to kiss it or just study it, he's honestly not certain.

Mostly, though, he just wants to _talk_ to Draco. He wants to know that he's guessed right, that this really is all a plot to stop the students from worrying themselves over things they can't affect. That Draco really is the changed boy Harry remembers, one who understands Harry and wants to be understood in return. And that maybe, Draco enjoyed it when Harry examined his hands. Harry _really_ wants to know that. He wants to know if Draco will let him do it again.

"Harry?" Ginny asks. "Do you think something, er, _important_'s going on? About the detentions, I mean."

Yes, obviously, but Harry's suppositions aren't anything like what Ginny's nervously hinting at. "They've got other things to worry about," he says lazily. He's become a decent actor lately, something that doesn't make him very happy. "That's all. Maybe there's a touch of relief, too, you know. So long as Malfoy fixates on me, he's not making the other student's lives so bad."

"Hm. That does have some merit," Hermione says. "I was talking with Professor Vector yesterday about how the Slytherins seem to be taking a break. I haven't had a first year come to me crying in two whole days."

Because the Slytherins—or at least the ones who look to Draco—don't _need_ to be so vile, not anymore. Life is resuming at Hogwarts, that first overwhelming aura of fear dissipating into the normal mixture of chaos and confusion. Everyone is still _aware_, of course, and frightened, but with the immediacy gone, no one needs the distractions as badly as before. Draco's plan—if it even was as thought out as Harry assumes—has worked brilliantly.

"See?" he says, faking a yawn. "That's all it is. Night, all, I'm for bed."

The others wave or mumble good night to him and he can hear them whispering to each other as he climbs the stairs to his dorm room. It's distressing to know that his best mates are talking about him—and he's certain they are—but Harry likes to think he's almost used to it by now. He can't _do_ anything about it, so he ignores it. Or he tries to. Fortunately, he's got the perfect distraction as he stretches himself out on his bed, Seamus already snoring away in his. His first detention is scheduled for the day after next, so that's just two more days before he can finally see Draco again.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mr. Malfoy. I presume that you, once again, did not find the atlas root I asked you for." Professor Snape paces back and forth behind his desk, his robes billowing behind him like black moth wings. He looks sinister and forbidding with his eyebrows lowered over his hawk-like nose.

Harry withholds a bitter snicker. A solid week and a half of lessons with Snape over the summer have given him a very unique view into the professor's mind: Snape does not like children. Everyone knows that. But Snape _understands_ children and is truly a gifted teacher. He knows that children need something to rail against, and has set himself to be that foil. If he's learned to take a little pleasure doing so through the years, if being the most hated and most highly respected teacher at Hogwarts—and he is—well, who can blame him? Snape's sneers are real, yet there's a lift to his eyebrows and a light that dances in his black eyes that tells Harry that Snape is enjoying this. Immensely, the twisted bastard. Biting his lip hard, Harry glances at Draco out of the corner of his eye, wanting to share the joke; if there is any other student in Hogwarts would understands just how to read Snape's moods, it has to be his prodigy and frequent assistant.

But Draco is looking at the floor. His hands are locked at his sides, fingers curled into the same kind of fists as at the lake, ones Harry now understands are associated with extreme emotional discomfort and fear. Draco, obviously, doesn't know Snape is entertaining himself—or that Snape is employing the same kind of games Draco himself is using. Or at least Harry suspects he is using.

His humor dies instantly, replaced with confusion and a hint of annoyance. He doesn't understand why Draco isn't seeing Snape's games—surely Snape has allowed the boy he _likes_ to see the things the boy he hates has already discovered? Draco is the petted favorite, a protege more than a student, and for him not to know this bothers Harry. Snape _should_ have already explained this aspect of his role to Draco, who is following in Snape's footsteps without years of experience or countless students to hone his craft. There is priceless advice untapped behind Snape's mask—sneering hate instead of arrogant disdain—but more importantly, Draco's path is perilous and he needs Snape the same way Harry needs Dumbledore. No matter how much Harry resents depending on the Headmaster, he is still a boy and needs a mentor and a confidant. Draco is no different, and for Snape to deny him ... Subtly, Harry angles his body towards Draco's, allowing their hands to brush. _Relax_, the touch says. _I'm here._

"Silence?" Professor Snape sneers. He watches both boys intently, Harry reading the smallest hint of shock in dark eyes before it's swallowed back into contempt. Harry doesn't bother acknowledging his win; his attention is focused on reassuring Draco, and Snape becomes superfluous. "Of course. Very well. For your first detention, you will go out and find more atlas root. You will not ask anyone for help, is that clear, Mister Potter? No quick trips to see if Miss Granger has any hints. You two will search alone, and you will not return until you have at least a solid handful. Am I understood?"

It's just past dinner time so it's not dark out yet, but night falls swiftly in October. Harry _knows_ that the grounds at Hogwarts are safe. Dumbledore's warding has been very thorough, some of the greatest witches and wizards in the nation adding their strength to the spell, along with members of the Order. Nothing can come in without Dumbledore's magically gifted approval, not even the creatures of the Forbidden Forest. So long as they stay within the wards, no matter how dark or cold it is outside, they'll be safe.

Harry holds tight onto that thought. "Okay," he says, since Draco doesn't appear to remember how to look up, let alone open his mouth. "Is there anything else you'd like us to do?"

Snape curls his upper lip, probably disappointed that Harry is nothing but polite. It's become a game with them to see who breaks first. "Try _not_ to kill each other, perhaps? The headmaster would be so displeased."

There are way too many things to be read into such a blatant statement, so Harry doesn't even bother trying. He starts to head for the door, stopping only when he realizes Draco hasn't moved yet. He turns back, Draco's name on his tongue—Draco, not Malfoy—but stops.

Draco is staring. There's something so open and vulnerable in stormy grey eyes. Draco _wants_, with the desperation of a child, and he wants it from Snape. Weeks ago, the thought would have sickened Harry, no matter how deeply he understands the role Snape's assigned himself to play—but now he sees with unshakable conviction. Outside of this office is something Draco does not understand, something he does not know how to plot or plan for. He does not have Harry's experience at throwing himself off the cliff, just to see if he can fly. He's scared.

And he is asking for Snape's reassurance.

Why Harry understands so clearly, he doesn't know. He doesn't really care. Snape is watching impassively, unmoving. _Bastard_ Harry thinks even as he takes two steps towards Draco's side, reaching out to take Draco's hand by the wrist.

"Hey," he says softly. "Come on. It's not worth it."

Grey eyes meet his and narrow, suddenly glaring with penetrating force. Harry feels like a character in the muggle program _Star Trek_, lasers searing into his body, as Draco searches for something Harry doesn't have a name for—

And just as quickly, it stops.

Draco's arm goes limp, his head dropping into a silent nod. His body moves only when Harry tugs lightly, following behind with a docility that's frightening. Draco shouldn't ever be _docile_, led around like a decision-challenged Hufflepuff. And Harry, under no circumstances at all, should never feel gratified that it's him Draco is complying with so easily.

The light is dying as they walk towards the lake, shadow-touched dusk competing with the last lingering hints of gold and pink as the sun slides away. It's cool, but not entirely cold yet. Harry surreptitiously checks Draco's attire, pleased when he discovers that Draco is wearing a jumper as thick as his own. Harry suspects that Draco has had the same notion he has, but doesn't mention it here. He doesn't want to think about what plagues him late at night, suspicions clouding his mind as he fights to find sleep. Hogwarts grounds are probably the safest place in all of England, and the best place in a boarding school to truly be alone. That the professors are sending them there... that two boys who fight and snarl in public are kept together in private detentions ...

But those are not important here, or now. All Harry cares about is that Draco is once again by his side.

The lake makes the cool air feel colder when they finally reach it, but Harry finds he likes that. The chill makes Draco's skin rise, fine hairs tickling Harry's skin. He finds a place for them to sit, pulling Draco down with him before Draco has a chance to make that decision on his own, hand still in Harry's. It's so easy to push up Draco's robe and the tightened cuff of his jumper, exposing the goose-pimpled flesh of his forearm underneath. Harry rubs it, bones fragile underneath his touch, smoothing the bumps and warming the skin. He watches as carefully as he can in the grey of sunset.

Draco raises no objections. He merely sighs and leans towards Harry, allowing greater access. Their shoulders are warm where they meet. Eventually, Harry tires of the skin of Draco's forearm. He wants very much to remove Draco's arm from its clothing entirely, but he's not quite sure why or if that's something he should really do—he knows without question that Draco will not object—and besides, it's too cold anyway. He contents himself by mapping as much of Draco's arm as he can through the layers of robe and jumper, working over shoulder and neck to finally touch the curve of Draco's ear and the sharp line of his jaw.

"How's your eye?" he asks.

"Madam Pomfrey gave me something for the pain."

It's an odd kind of answer, but Harry just nods. There's only the faintest hint of discoloration around a lid half-lowered in ... pleasure? Harry hopes that it is, that he's not doing something Draco wants to object to. "I'm sorry I hit you there. I didn't mean to."

"We both lunged wrong," Draco immediately dismisses. "Hardly something to fret over."

"It's so strange for you to be quiet." Harry brushes the backs of his fingers over Draco's cheek, feeling the faintest hint of stubble, the hairs too fair to be visible. "I like it."

"It's strange for you to l—to want to spend time with me." The stumbled word brings a rush of pink heat to Draco's cheeks . Harry can _feel_ the blood as it pools and presses his palm against the skin, fascinated. Draco leans slightly into his palm and says, "I've spent five years coming up with the most devastating ways to hurt you and your friends. You shouldn't want to be anywhere near me. And you shouldn't trust me."

"S'lucky for you that I do, then," Harry says.

He means it as teasing, trying to draw a little more life into this silent creature beside him. He doesn't mean for Draco to start in surprise, turning his head so quickly it dislodges Harry's hand to flop uncomfortably onto Draco's shoulder, eyes inscrutable. "You trust me?"

Harry leans back onto his elbows, listening to the squid splashing somewhere in the middle of the lake, the ripples from its movements lapping softly against the edges. He kicks his legs out before him, tensing and untensing the muscles. "I trust you not to hurt me intentionally," he says eventually. "I trust that I'm seeing Draco, not his father's creature. I trust that you like being here." He doesn't say 'with me'. He can't get the words past his suddenly tight throat.

"Why?"

Harry thinks about that for a very long time. The question is said flippantly—_why bother_—but Harry knows that it's seriously asked and deserves to be seriously answered. And maybe then Harry can calm his own confusion and occasional doubts. "Why do you let me see the real you?" he asks eventually. "Why do you trust _me_?"

Draco snorts, though his body is trembling very faintly. "Because you're a Gryffindor," he says airily. "You breathe trustworthiness along with your halitosis."

"Well, there is that," Harry agrees in the same tone. "But that's not why you're letting me see things about you, is it? So that's not why I trust you."

The answer is roundabout and Harry's almost confusing himself—but Draco stops holding himself so rigidly, the trembling easing into a sigh that sounds contented. It's a good sound. "I hated you, you know," Draco says, cruel amusement directed at himself, not Harry. It's probably a first, ever—a self-deprecating Draco. Someone needs to notify the _Daily Prophet_. "You were filthy and skinny and terrified, but you sat down next to Weasley like it was the most natural thing in the world. I wanted that."

"What, being a scrawny kid, clothed in your cousin's castoffs, and terrified 'cause you don't know anything?" Not even that your name is the most famous since Merlin's.

Draco doesn't smile or shake his head, though Harry somehow knows that Draco is amused as he leans back to mimic Harry's position, wearing a thoughtful expression. His legs aren't quite as long as Harry's, but their torsos are the same exact length. Or at least, Harry thinks they are, based on the outlines the robes reveal. He wants to touch Draco again and doesn't have the first idea _why_ he wants it at all, let alone why he wants it so much.

"I'd rather freeze then wear the horrid imitation of clothing that you seem to prefer," Draco says, a hint of a grin lurking around the edges of his lips. His clothes, Harry realizes, are about to become the subject of a great deal of teasing. Since they really are awful—he can't be arsed about getting new ones, as he wears robes to cover most of the worst bits anyway—he decides that it's a good first step. "No, it's how easy it was, with you two. I didn't see it then, of course, I thought you'd done the same kind of thing I'd learned to do—making a formal declaration, like a pair of warring nations, or bludgeoning your way in charge. I didn't know how to just sit down and start talking."

It takes Harry a moment to realize that Draco is jealous not of Harry, but _Ron_. The sentence runs through his mind several times, leaving giggles and amazement unvoiced in its wake. It's the kind of thing Harry wants to go tell Ron immediately, just to see the reactions he'll get blazoned on his expressive, freckled face—but he won't. Won't ever. Draco is trusting him and Harry is determined to be worthy of it.

Draco's jealousy is easy to understand, probably because Harry's just a little bit jealous of Ron in the same way. Ron comes from a big, boisterous family where no matter what fights have broken out—and here, he carefully does not think of Percy—there's always love and affection underneath it all. There will always be welcoming arms and a chat over a cuppa or one of Molly's meals, people to come to your rescue if you need it or a smack upside the head if you need _that_. Oh, yes, it's easy for Harry to be jealous of the family Ron has, just as it's easy for an only, lonely child to recognize another.

Worse than that, though, is Ron's easy going nature. Despite all his faults and sore spots, he's remarkably easy to get along with. Ron is instantly recognizable as the kind of person others want for a mate, which is probably why it's Ron who's friends with the rest of Gryffindor, while Harry is still mostly just friends with Ron. Ron is puppyish enthusiasm, plus all the bourgeoning charm that Bill and Charlie display so easily. All the Weasleys, really, are cheerful, friendly souls and little phases them for very long. It's one of the reasons Harry loves them so very much and is grateful to be an adopted son to Arthur and Molly.

But it doesn't stop him from occasionally resenting them. It's taken him a while, but he's pretty sure that's what _family_ is: the ability to not always like someone, sometimes even _hate_ someone, but still never stop loving them.

"It wasn't that easy, you know. The first thing Ron ever asked me was for my autograph." Harry sees Draco shift, disagreeing. Lying fully onto his back, Harry reaches out to tug Draco as flat as he is, their bodies close enough that combined body heat makes it easy to ignore the chill from the ground. A strand of blond hair tickles Harry's ear. "But I know what you mean."

"I suppose we ought to find the atlas root. Weed." The change of subject isn't unexpected, Draco tense and awkward as he reclines beside Harry. "Whatever idiotic quest Snape's sent us on. It probably doesn't even exist."

Tiny hints of stars are starting to appear above them. They're faint, the sky still not dark enough to showcase their brilliance, but Harry can already pick out familiar constellations. Astronomy isn't his favorite class, but it's fun to realize he can point up and say 'I know what that configuration is'. It's something even the Dursleys, if the Dursleys cared about Harry's scholastic achievements, could have been proud of. Wizarding constellations and muggle constellations are surprisingly similar. Harry doesn't say anything until Draco finally loses his nervousness and starts relaxing. It happens in a rush, like Harry's passed some sort of test and Draco gives in immediately after. Though 'gives in' is probably the wrong term. "Nah," he says. "He'll just send us out tomorrow for more, even if we find it."

"It's the worst excuse I've ever heard of," Draco grumbles. He sounds more like the boy Harry remembers, now. There's less overweening arrogance and cruelty, but the bite to his drawling words is back. Harry is glad to hear it. "Why on earth did they have to send us outside, anyway? It's cold out here! And it's dark. I don't like it."

He has to laugh. "You really are a spoiled brat, aren't you."

"If you're implying that I prefer my creature comforts undisturbed, then yes, you're correct. There's nothing wrong with preferring to be warm and within decent range of a fire. Or some other light source." He pauses for a moment, waiting for something. When Harry does nothing, Draco grumbles something under his breath that sounds mostly made up of vowels, and reaches into his robes. "_Lu—_"

"Don't."

It's fully dark now, but for the distant lights coming from the castle. Harry's pretty sure they're fairy lights. Professor Lupin—he's always Professor, when Harry thinks about the Dark Arts, never Remus—taught them that fairy lights are cool and white, like muggle florescents, but without the harshness. They offer just enough visibility that Harry can see when Draco sits up, eyes wide and shining. "But I just—"

"I said don't." Something more seems to be required, some kind of explanation other than Harry not wanting the spindly light from Draco's wand, or the absolutely certainty that Draco won't argue with him. "I won't be able to see the stars, if you do that," he adds lamely.

"Oh."

Draco remains sitting up, shivering slightly as a gust of wind dances over them. He glances side-long at Harry, obviously wonder if a warming-charm is more acceptable—but doesn't ask. It's past eight, Harry guesses, and he wonders how much time they really have before reality intrudes. He likes lying here, with Draco, letting the air brush against their skin as they do nothing at all. He doesn't like the gradual hunch to Draco's shoulder, though. Or the shivering Draco is trying to suppress.

So he puts a hand on Draco's shoulder and pulls him down beside him, arm around his back, Draco's head resting on his shoulder. It's not comfortable. He can feel his arm losing circulation already and Draco's head is heavy and hard against the bones of his shoulder. But Draco's breath is warm against his neck, his body gradually relaxing as Harry holds him there, refusing to let go, and Harry discovers that actually, this is the most comfortable he's ever been in his entire life.

"I don't understand," Draco says eventually. The words vibrate through their bodies as well as through the air. "Snape doesn't like you. At all. 'Loathing' might be a good term to describe just how much he hates you."

"But he needs me," Harry reminds him. Does Snape actually know just _how_ much he needs Harry? The prophecy has never come up once, not even between Harry and Dumbledore, but he doesn't know how many people may already know about it. "And he does like you."

"No, he doesn't. He likes my ... Oh." The hint of realization, bitter and thick like a muggle pill caught in the throat, is painful to hear. "He likes my father," Draco says seriously.

Harry presses his hand flat against Draco's back, feeling the knobs in Draco's spine. It pushes Draco even closer to him, but Harry doesn't think Draco objects. They're practically snuggling, Draco's leg creeping up Harry's until their robes are tangled together and Harry is starting to think things he desperately doesn't want to think right now. Not when he thinks that Draco's finally going to talk.

"Did you know? That Snape is, um. What he is?" Harry asks, mostly to distract himself from the warm pressure of a thigh resting on top of his.

"He wanted me to," Draco says idly, like his attention is focused on something else. Maybe the feel of Harry's hip, pressed against Draco's inner thigh, robes and two pairs of trousers thin protection? "I've known for years, actually. I could never understand why I didn't tell my father about him, but I suppose I wanted to keep my options open. Or maybe I guessed—" Draco stops, going completely still. Harry expects this, though, and is already bringing his other arm up, linking his fingers together so that he is holding Draco tightly. The tension leaves Draco's body in a forceful sigh, cheek nuzzling against Harry's shoulder in thanks. "I never did tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about."

"It's not. Snape can take care of himself."

Draco's breath is warm and wet against his neck. Harry shivers every time Draco inhales, the cool night air rushing in to chill the damp patch of skin. Underneath pine and crushed grass and squid-infested waters, Harry can smell the musk of another boy and something crisp and clean—shampoo? Soap? It doesn't matter, except that it smells too good. Pressure grows in Harry's middle and he knows that he has to push Draco away. Soon. He also knows that there's no way _not_ to hurt Draco, who won't understand anything but rejection. It isn't rejection, Harry thinks frantically, not at all. Draco's body feels so good against his...

But Draco is trusting him and Harry doesn't want to betray that trust in _any_ way.

"Did you do that on purpose?" he blurts, suddenly. His body quakes with the desire to stay exactly where he is, and the desperate need to move, get away, flee from things he doesn't really understand. He holds onto the thought that any sudden movements will sent Draco scuttling. "Er. The stuff, back at the castle. Insulting people."

"Being my father's son?" Draco deduces, his tone bitter and scathing. "Of course. Dumbledore said something that made me think. He's really not a crazy old bat, is he?"

"Oh, he is. Totally barking, I think. But he's not weak, and he's not stupid." And Draco will probably never know how much it hurts Harry to say those words.

"No, he isn't. He just walked up to me one day, ineffably _twinkling_, and started talking about rivalries and concentration and using lessons properly." Draco snorts, amused as he taps a pattern on Harry's belly. "I thought he was just being barmy, again. It wasn't until I got back to my common room that I figured it out. They were scared. _Everyone_ was scared, even Slytherins. Even the ones who knew they'd be Death Eaters like their parents. So I—made them stop being so scared."

"You did good, Draco. Er, brilliant, I mean." Harry's skin flushes, scalding hot, and Draco shifts restlessly against him. "I've never actually watched you go after people, before. Mostly I was too busy being got after, myself." He tugs Draco's hair lightly, teasing, and feels the skin against his shoulder shift and bunch—does that mean Draco's smiling? He hopes so. "You're really good at it, if that's complimentary. Skilled. It was like watching a general or a—a surgeon, or something."

"A surgeon? Isn't that a fish?"

A—Harry laughs, grateful for the change in atmosphere, using it to push both of them into an upright sitting position. It takes a great deal of effort to actually let go of Draco, but he thinks the movement looks natural enough. "No, that's a sturgeon. A surgeon is a, um, muggle healer. They cut into you and fix things inside you to make you better."

Draco makes a face, shadows growing more pronounced against skin that glows sickly pale in the moonlight, until his face looks almost grotesque. "They cut _into_ you? Potter, that's barbaric!"

"It isn't, really. They use lasers—beams of light that are very sharp and hot—and they can fix nearly anything, nowadays." He doesn't mention Dudley's laser removal of a pig-tail. Draco's comments are not specifically negative towards muggles, yet, and Harry doesn't want to encourage any deviation. "It's not graceful, maybe, or as easy as Madam Pomfrey waving her wand and giving us a nasty-tasting potion. It works, though. It's not ... _bad_."

"No. I suppose it isn't."

Harry blinks, staring almost cross-eyed at Draco as the other boy climbs to his feet. That Draco has not retreated into his usual anti-muggle vitriol, Harry has put to Draco wanting to keep on Harry's good side, or maybe Draco wanting to make his own decisions or something Harry hasn't thought of—but he never, truly never, expected to hear Draco sound so thoughtful as he discussed muggle doctoring. Even _appreciative_. Harry has not considered that Draco's changed opinion about Voldemort also means a changed opinion about muggles. For some reason, that thought never even occurs to him.

"How can light be sharp?" Draco asks suddenly.

"Er." Harry searches his memory and comes up with an image of different colors of light bouncing off oddly placed mirrors, nothing more. The word 'prism' tantalizes him. "I don't know, really. We only had one class about lasers when I was in muggle school, and I was only about seven years old. I doubt they really explained the physics of it to us, even if I could remember it."

"Ah, yes, muggle school." There's the derision Harry is waiting for, but Draco shocks him by asking, "What was that like?" They begin walking back towards Hogwarts castle, Harry idly searching the grounds for a root or weed they cannot see in the dark. They'll be yelled at, of course, for returning empty handed but Harry expects that and isn't worried. "Was it like Hogwarts?"

"Sometimes." Harry skips over memories of Dudley sticking his head down toilets or Dudley's friends pushing him around, instead relating what the classes were like and some of the subjects they were taught as the boys veer away from the main doors to head towards the Quidditch pitch, instead. They're too busy talking to go back inside, yet. "It wasn't really that different, I guess," Harry sums up. "We just learned muggle stuff instead of magic. We didn't have the houses, though, but that could be because I wasn't at a boarding school."

Draco sniffs at him. "No Quidditch?"

"Er, there were other sports, but—no. No, there's no Quidditch there."

They share a look of perfect rapture, grateful that they are in a world where they _do_ get to play Quidditch. There's more illumination, this close to the castle, and Harry can see Draco's eyes light up with happiness. He's never seen Draco _happy_ before and continues staring far too long, enthralled by the picture Draco makes. He's very pretty this way, all smooth skin and boyish enthusiasm, without a sneer to mar his features. His lips are soft and pink and Harry leans closer to them, too caught up in his studies to realize he's too close.

"Harry! Hey, 'arry!"

They immediately spring apart, Harry grabbing Draco's hand and pulling him slightly behind his body—at least, until he realizes the large shape moving towards them is Hagrid. Who can see that Harry is holding Draco's hand.

He drops it as if the skin of Draco's palm is scalding.

When Draco inhales sharply, Harry starts mentally cursing himself.

"Er, hi, Hagrid," he babbles, wincing and wishing he could turn around and explain himself. "What're you doing around here?"

"Could be askin' you boys that," Hagrid says. He's eyeing the two of them curiously, but Harry is far more concerned with the way Draco is shrinking more and more behind him. "It's a bit late to be out, in'it?"

"We're on detention. For, er. Snape sent us out here to find atlas weed, or root, except that we can't so we were just going to go back. It's cold out and—and Malfoy's going to catch sick. He'll never let me hear the end of it, if he does."

"Is that what he's been telling yeh?" Hagrid's expression is suddenly dark and scowling, and Harry has the unique opportunity to see _Draco_ face the kind of immediate, hateful assumptions that he has received from Snape for years. Behind him, Draco bristles the way Harry has always done, furious and frustrated because any backtalk only brings about more punishment. It's confusing, really. Harry wants to be gleeful, satisfied to see Draco finally face this kind of thing, smugly happy to not be the accused for once.. Except he also wants to step in front of Draco and tell Hagrid to back off. After all, it _is_ cold out, and the damp air from the lake means that there is a very real (if slight) chance Draco could become sick. Harry doesn't want that. He'll probably be annoyingly demanding to care for, Harry unconsciously assuming that he'll be the one to nurse an ill Draco back to health.

"It's bloody _freezing_ out here," Draco spits out. He steps out from behind Harry's body, posture straight and regal once more, mask firmly in place. If the circumstances were better, Harry might be fascinated to watch the transformation. "If this weren't detention, I wouldn't be caught dead with you peasants." His hand brushes against Harry's as Draco stomps away, muttering imprecations under his breath.

"Yeh all right, Harry?"

Harry nods, wishing he is as good an actor as Draco because it's hard to look the way he thinks he's supposed to look now. Forced to spend several hours in Malfoy's company—there should be scowling and dark mutters and possibly a mirrored black eye. Harry manages the scowl, but only just barely; he's certain, based on Hagrid's confusion, he looks constipated more than anything else. "Fine. I've got to get back. Professor Snape's going to be upset that we didn't find the plant. He'll probably give us even more detention," he adds with what he hopes is the right combination of sullenness and morose acceptance.

"Eh, buck up, Harry!" Hagrid's hand comes down, patting his shoulder hard enough that Harry fears it will dislocate. "I'll talk to him, mebbe, see if I can tell him how awful Malfoy was bein' t' yeh. Dunno how yeh put up wit' him for so many hours, out there by yerself."

Yes. Hours and hours they talked and ... _cuddled_ by the lake. All very traumatic. Harry obviously needs ice cream to console himself after such awfulness.

Harry chooses not to respond to Hagrid's comments and instead turns to make his way back to the castle. He tries to make each step heavy and despondent, as if he does not want to return for his inevitable punishment, when what he really wants to do is run all the way there to make sure Draco has arrived safely. He knows, intellectually, that there are no gopher holes to trip Draco's feet and that nothing's snuck past Dumbledore's protections. Draco is _fine_. But Harry desperately wants to explain himself and apologize so there's no misunderstanding between them. He doesn't want Draco to think ... well, all kinds of things, really. Not that it matters, since Hagrid falls in step—a surprisingly slow step, since normally Harry has to jog to keep up with Hagrid. 

"Didn't fight again, did ya?" Hagrid asks.

"No. We didn't fight."

"Well, that's alright then, innit? Be out of detention in no time!"

Harry lets Hagrid chatter at him, just barely convincing him to leave _before_ Harry arrives at the front doors. He doesn't want Hagrid and Snape interacting if he can help it, the two of them far more like the oil and water Harry and Draco used to be. It takes a promise of a visit this coming weekend—detention permitting—but finally Hagrid heads back down to his little hut while Harry crosses the stone threshold to the castle itself.

Snape is waiting for him, fairy light curling around the edges of his black robes and blacker hair until he looks haloed. It makes looking at him difficult, a terrifying visage, dark and sinister despite the almost golden quality of the light—which is probably why Snape has chosen this particular pose. The man does enjoy playing up to his audience, Harry thinks with an internal snort, and simply stares at him. "We didn't find it."

"So Mr. Malfoy informed me. Pity. I thought he, at least, might be persuasive enough overcome your inabilities."

There's a game here, something hidden within the couched words, the silken, unctuous tone, but Harry's not the one who's good at making words dance or decoding the meanings within each step. That is Hermione's forte, proved way back in first year with Snape's riddle, but Hermione isn't here and Harry isn't going to tell her anything about this night or this conversation. Instead he settles for making his flat look even flatter. He can't risk a glare, unfortunately; it just isn't effective.

"We'll go back out tomorrow night," Harry snaps, tired and testy now that Draco's gone again, where Harry can't see him. "Surely you can wait twenty four hours."

"That assumes that you will find my plant tomorrow, Mr. Potter. A dangerous assumption to make."

Harry's mind whirls, trying to tread in choppy waters, coming up with explanations and suppositions and not a single clever response. Or maybe a dangerous one? A soft breeze curls through the court yard, throwing light into Snape's eyes—and Harry abruptly stops caring. This is a game to Snape, who is eagerly awaiting Harry's response. If Snape wants to play games, he thinks grimly, then he can find someone else to play them with. Harry knows what his priorities are, and Snape isn't among even the top ten.

"If you've something to say, then say it." Harry's proud of how level his voice is. "Otherwise, it's late, Professor, and it's getting chilly outside. I'd like to go and get warm."

Snape folds his arms across his chest, the light making his greasy, pock-marked face shine. It's a disconcerting image, particularly when Snape's expression goes perfectly blank—and Harry starts being frightened. The crueler, more satisfied Snape looks, the more petty the next thing he'll say is. But when he's blank, as if he wants to give nothing away, then, Harry's learned, whatever Snape says is bad. _Very_ bad. Harry swallows, all his lovely maturity vanishing as he remembers that he is sixteen and no matter how awful he thinks Snape is, the man still knows more than he about a lot of things. Including fear.

"Yes, I suppose you should be well rested." The lack of Snape's usual sickeningly satisfied purr makes Harry's stomach knot itself. "The Headmaster has requested that he take over some of your detentions, Mr. Potter, which you will be serving on the weekends. Alone."

Harry gulps, aware of each drop of blood as it drains from his face. No. Oh _please_ no.

Snape's grimace is the closest thing to sympathy that he can manage; Harry is too frightened to hate him for it. "It's time for your training to truly begin."


	4. Chapter 4

"So why are _you_ upset?" Draco is lounging at his desk chair, looking thoroughly unconcerned with life in general and the transfiguration classroom in particular. The chair Seamus usually sits in is bearing the brunt of his displeasure. "I'm sure you can guess why I am."

Harry doesn't bother to respond as he throws himself into his own chair. He hates this kind of detention. At least when they're outside, Harry can let himself relax for a few precious moments, enjoying the fresh air and the comfort of nature around him. But those are Snape's detentions, and for Professor McGonagall they are confined to her classroom. Harry wishes he could transfigure the hard wooden desk he sits at into something squishy and comfortable, but he doesn't. Professor McGonagall believes in mortification of the flesh, or at least says she does whenever students request chairs that aren't quite so hard and unforgiving; she wouldn't approve of such a silly transfiguration, regardless. "Who said I'm upset?" he asks, his bag thunking beside his feet, heavy enough that he winces when a toe is accidentally caught.

"Well, let's see. It could be the scowl dark enough to make a thundercloud blush with envy. Or perhaps it's the way you walk, as if your limbs were held on only by spellotape and no longer truly part of your body. Or maybe, and I do believe this is the most likely, it's the frown you're sporting. You could probably strike a Hufflepuff dead with that." Draco's grin is immediate and stunning. "Let's skive off and try it."

Harry is careful not to go glass-eyed or make his staring too obvious: Draco's smiles are as fragile as a strip of burning magnesium, momentarily blinding and then gone in an instant, and staring, Harry has learned the hard way, shortens their half-life even more. He's become a master at keeping Draco in his peripheral vision, reveling in the smiles he loves so much. Pink lips, full for a boy's, curve into the most startling of grins, containing none of the sneering disdain that the other students have come to associate with Draco Malfoy's pleasure. None of them see enthusiasm and happiness—real happiness, not manufactured or manipulating—or the way Draco's eyes light up until the grey is almost _clear_. Draco looks the way Ron does, or Dean, after a particularly funny joke. He looks _normal_.

He looks beautiful.

Harry doesn't mention that, though, or let his wonder effect his expression. He wants to keep Draco's smiles as long as he possibly can, locking them up in boxes for only his personal enjoyment. One day he'll try, too—but for now Harry smiles back as genuinely, still without looking at Draco directly, then rests his forehead on folded forearms. He can't see Draco anymore, but he can still _feel_ his happiness. It's a poor compromise, but enough to keep Harry content.

"Sorry," he says, knowing the desk muffles most of his tone, obscuring it so the strain is more hidden. Draco is too good at reading Harry, lately. "Am I less threatening this way?"

"Oh yes. That's much better. Now you're merely pathetic whereas before, at least, you managed to pull of that smoldering, sexy look models have when they sneer at the camera. Here I thought you were showing off for me, doing your little turn on the catwalk."

A slightly hysterical giggle rises up to lodge in Harry's throat, unvoiced. This isn't the first time Draco's made unwitting references to something Harry knows from the muggle world, and probably not the last. He doesn't bother to try and explain—Draco would only be horribly offended at sharing even a passing turn of phrase with magicless inferiors. Particularly _this_ turn of phrase. His shoulders tremble slightly, remembering the terribly cheesy commercial that had featured the song, and has to work hard not to pique Draco's curiosity. Not that Draco will ask, though. Harry doesn't know how to explain it, he just _knows_ that Draco will let it pass—because Harry wants him to.

That kind of understanding frightens Harry, when he tries to parse it down into something logical. He's never _known_ someone the way he appears to know Draco, or vice versa. He doesn't understand why it's happening, either—when it fails, as it sometimes does, it scares him how quickly he forgets anything but his hate and resentment towards Draco. It's not a spell, he's fairly certain. Just... a something. A _synergy_ that has them on the same wavelength, to borrow a muggle phrase.

Sometimes it's hard to maintain it: Draco takes one step too far, one day, or Harry defends his friends just a little too vehemently. Whatever the method, their fights stop being play-acting to relieve tension but true brawls meant to hurt. Harry forgets everything but that this is Draco Malfoy, his rival and enemy since the first train ride, who has spent five years trying to make Harry's life miserable. He doesn't know what Draco sees during those awful times, but the obsidian-sharp hate Draco glares at him isn't difficult to read. While neither of them know what it is that makes their understanding fail, Harry, at least, knows exactly what brings it back. Once it was Draco's eyes while they fought, a hint of true fear lost in rain-cloud grey; Harry remembers thinking that Draco should never be frightened of him, ever. Once it was a tremor of laughter hidden behind Malfoy's sneer, shared enjoyment instead of derision. Once it was a comment from Ron, Harry instinctively wanting to defend Draco instead of joining in. Once it was a comment from Snape, surprisingly, sending both boys into snickers instead of glares.

"Potter. Potter! Please don't tell me you've fallen asleep _already_. I refuse to be left to face McGonagall on my own. The old bat hates me, but she's positively putty-like when you're conscious and distracting her away from my charms."

Harry tries, almost desperately, to think of something witty to say. This is the most playful Draco's been in days. The Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry is growing exponentially worse and Draco bears the brunt of it—Harry doesn't want to risk sending Draco into a funk again. Learning about _that_ aspect of Draco's personality isn't something that Harry wants to relive frequently; while Draco doesn't brood quite as much as Harry, his descents into depression are dark and frighteningly violent. It's only how quickly Draco gets over them that keeps them tolerable.

Draco is raising an eyebrow at him, Harry knows it. He again tries to think of _some_thing—but his mind remains stubbornly blank, the way it has for days now. Half the reason for the upswing in hostilities is that Harry is unable to do _his_ part to mitigate people's anger. He knows what to do, now: Draco has explained everything in detail and often their detention sessions are a run down of those most in need of Draco's brand of stress relief and how to accomplish it. But as Dumbledore's lessons continue and Harry grows more despondent after each one, he is less and less able to play the foil Draco needs.

It hurts, not to be able to help. He knows that Draco can handle it—they have that conversation often enough. It's just that Harry is losing touch with a lot of things, lately, and he hates that he can't seem to hold on. His lessons drain something vital and pure out of him each, leaving him distant and cold and ... empty. He hates it, but he can't seep to stop it, either. He's frightened of himself in a way he never has been before, not even when strange things happened for inexplicable reasons, and he hates that, too.

He waits for the day when he starts hating Dumbledore. It's not there yet, but by Christmas holidays, Harry thinks he will. He dreads it.

The soft swish of cloth distracts him from his thoughts. "Sorry," Harry says as lightly as he can. "I'm in a bit of a—"

Hands touch his shoulders. They're surprisingly large hands, curling around the slope of Harry's shoulders easily, fingers almost reaching Harry's collar bone. The heat from them burns through layers of robe and shirt to warm his skin the way no fire ever can. The pressure is exquisite, perfectly placed. When those large, hot hands start to move, Harry has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. The muscles ache beneath the slow touch, and when a thumb presses something knotted and painful in Harry's shoulder, his entire right side goes limp and a little numb.

"Oh," Harry says softly. It's so good he could cry. His breath feathers against the wood of the desk, the wetness bouncing back to fog up his glasses. The painful knot in Harry's shoulder is kneaded again, and this time he can't stop the moan that travels up from his gut. He doesn't really want to. "Oh, god," he whispers.

"I've wanted to do this for days." Sarcasm and arrogance are now a source of shared amusement between them, but several minutes in Harry's presence always strips both from Draco's voice. The pithy one liners that are the terror of Hogwarts vanish. The mocking drawl smooths, timbre rising as manufactured maturity lifts. A shy diffidence—something inconceivable a few weeks before—fills Draco's voice and an innocent wonder that Harry has never been able to really understand. It's almost _awe_ in Draco's voice and when that isn't making Harry feel very good about himself, it bothers him a little. He doesn't want Draco to be in awe of him.

Now, though, Draco's voice is low and soft, with a note of soothing that he's only heard in Mrs. Weasley's voice, or Ginny's when she plays with Pig. The comparison makes him uncomfortable but Draco's hands haven't stopped moving, working at his neck and the base of his skull. It's hard to think when his body is being turned into a puddle of goo, so Harry stops trying.

"Am I hurting you?" Draco asks.

Hurting? Harry doesn't have breath enough to laugh, which is good. Laughter might make Draco stop, and Harry's perfectly willing to kill—er, hurt something very badly to prevent that. "No," he says.

"It's because of Dumbledore, isn't it?" The words are barely audible, but Harry hears them. Harry can _feel_ them, worry and concern painting pictures on his skin. "You always look like porridge after a food-fight when he finally lets you go. And you're practically mute, lately. Where's that famous Harry Potter stubbornness, hm? My Slytherins are floundering without you to argue with. Even Pansy's noticed, and she's the most self-absorbed creature I've ever met. Myself included."

The stab at humor is forced and both of them let it die, rather than answer.

"Yes." It hurts, saying that, metal drawing up his throat along with the syllable. He's not told anyone, not Ron or Hermione or even Hedwig, what his lessons are about. He'll never tell. He tries not to even _think_ about it, afraid that shaping the words in his mind—even examining the tangential repercussions—will make it real. He doesn't know what he'll do if someone finds out, and he prays with all the fervor he has left that Snape doesn't know _what_ his lessons are specifically about. Dumbledore, perhaps surprised by Harry's reaction, has assured him that he's told no one the details. Harry doesn't know if he believes the old man anymore, but he doesn't have a choice and they both know it.

Sometimes, Harry dreams of running away. Hopping onto his broom and escaping into the night air, or maybe sneaking down to the kitchens and begging the so-helpful house elves for a very sharp knife, or obliviating himself so if he doesn't remember, then he'll just do as he's told without having to think about it—the means and methods always change. Harry knows he's not really ready to run and definitely not suicidal. He's just _tired._ Fate has a strangle hold on him, and his subconscious mind is as aware of that as his conscious, since his dreams always end the same way:

Everyone dying.

If Harry is gone, then everyone dies. Not just some people, the way the Order is preparing for. _Everyone_. Voldemort is a mad man. Harry's started studying mad men throughout history and the pattern he sees is clearer than any of Trelawny's foggy crystal balls. Once Voldemort starts killing, he won't stop. He won't be satisfied with Harry's death or Dumbledore's, or every mudblood and muggle, because there will always be some threat to his power, some paranoia he has to indulge. _Nothing_ will satisfy him. Not until he's the only creature left standing and maybe not even then.

So Harry doesn't run. He goes to his lessons on time, and he practices whenever he can.

Harry realizes that he's still waiting for Draco to ask him the rest of it. For _someone_ to ask him. But as the seconds tick by and the only sounds are of two boys breathing and hands moving over thin robes and stubbornly tense muscle, he starts to relax. It isn't a surprise that Draco doesn't ask for more detail, really—Harry's mouth purses, annoyed that he has to be grateful to a lesson that Lucius taught his son. But he is grateful, so he stays quiet and lets Draco rub his shoulders and neck, pressing on the soft places at the base of his skull before using his knuckles to work each separate vertebrae in his back. It feels amazingly good. So much so that Harry wonders if he might fall asleep like this. That maybe he won't dream with Draco's hands delivering him into rest.

He's almost fully into a doze when the door finally opens and he hears, "_What_ is going on here?"

Draco's hands press down hard, hard enough that Harry can't jump upright and away, fingers digging little divots into Harry's back that should probably hurt instead of feel really, really good. "He's exhausted," Draco says. "I'm merely assisting him to relax."

Harry can almost _hear_ Professor McGonagall's dumbfounded expression. As he's caused a few in his time, he knows how short a time they last and how much worse things are afterwards, despite the seeming reprieve. He tries to get up again, but Draco keeps him in position, attacking a particularly sore muscle in Harry's lower back until he's too busy gasping and trying not to wince to argue about anything.

"I beg your pardon?"

Draco's sigh is long-suffering, although Harry knows without turning that his expression will remain perfectly neutral. It's a skill of his that Harry envies but can't mimic no matter how often he practices. Draco's hands start kneading unnecessarily hard, a sure sign that he's becoming annoyed. "I'm rubbing his back, Professor."

"I can see that, yes, Mister Malfoy. What I'm uncertain of is _why_ you are doing so," McGongall says, accented voice lightly trembling with repressed emotion.

Harry can't tell if she's upset about _Draco_ touching him this way, or the easy intimacy Harry is permitting, or maybe something else again he can't identify. He doubts it's good, whatever it is—Draco rubbing his back is the best thing that's happened to him in days, which makes it a statistical certainty that something is going to prevent it. That's just the way his life works, he thinks pessimistically. He's about to mumble something to try and direct McGonagall's attention towards himself, when Draco sharply inhales. Harry _knows_ that sound. He knows what follows that sound, and as gratifying it is to have that kind of vitriol wielded in his defense, McGonagall can take away their shared detentions! He immediately tries to sit up—

"I was just commenting, Professor, respectfully of course," Draco's tone is anything but respectful, "that you and your bloody Order have been treating Harry like a house elf. He was almost asleep when you came in here. Have you any idea just how difficult it is to make someone this tense and unhappy finally relax enough to sleep? Oh, but wait, of course you do. I recommend cucumber slices for those bags under your eyes, Mother swears by them."

It's too far. Furious, Harry arches up into Draco's hands in a firm command to let him go, and let him go _now_. Immediately, Draco stops the massage and with the propriety of a trained valet, helps Harry sit up straight and brush his robes in order. Harry glares at him, not caring that McGonagall is spluttering with fury, because Draco won't care about that. He _does_ care about Harry's anger—there's an embarrassed flush high on his cheek bones and his are lips compressed into a tight frown anyone but Harry would take as a sneer. Harry ignores all of that; Draco doesn't _like_ it when Harry's truly angry at him. It's only happened once before, but it's like Harry's anger—and especially disappointment—cuts at Draco in some fundamental way that Harry doesn't understand but is perfectly willing to use. So he continues glaring, cultivating as many silent signals of _not happy_ as he can until Draco finally settles into his own desk, head down and expression—to Harry—humble. Harry knows full well that everyone else will see nothing but sullen anger at having been reprimanded, but _he_ knows this look for what it is.

It's so amazingly easy to read Draco, once he's handed you the primer.

After a moment, Draco lifts his head. "I'm sorry, Professor," he says. It's not completely sincere, but it's better than Draco's usual apology: insulting, when it's not patently unrepentant.

"Accepted, Mister Malfoy," Professor McGonagall says.

Harry studies her even as he reaches out to grasp Draco's wrist, forefinger and thumb resting right over the angrily fluttering pulse-point and squeezes lightly—a reminder to behave. Professor McGonagall catches the movement and purses her mouth as if she's just swallowed a lemon. That's an expected enough reaction: public affections are only barely tolerated by a staff who knows they can't truly prevent them. What's unexpected is the glint of satisfaction Harry thinks he sees in her eyes. Satisfied that Harry is controlling Draco? That they've gotten past their differences, which is what both he and Draco suspect is behind the professorial manipulations to share detentions together? Neither reasons makes sense, but Harry doesn't think he's reading Professor McGonagall wrong.

"Perhaps you are right, Mister Malfoy," she says eventually. "However, I must remind you that I am a professor in this institution and you will address me with respect. Is that understood?"

It's gentle, as reprimands go, but Draco has recovered from Harry's anger—he shakes things off very quickly—and it's clear the instant he opens his mouth that he's going to say something insulting. Harry doesn't let him get a single syllable out, squeezing around Draco's wrist. It doesn't hurt, really. Harry knows how far he can go before it's truly painful, but it's a very effective way to communicate that Harry will be quite displeased if Draco makes her angry. Again. Particularly as she and Professor Snape seem to control their shared detentions, something Harry has _no_ intention of losing, and he finds himself gripping just a touch harder.

Draco swallows his words so quickly that he chokes.

"We're sorry, Professor," Harry says into the silence. McGonagall is staring at them, eyes narrowed; Harry has made no attempt to disguise his actions, and Draco is staring at the floor, the flush slowly spreading over his cheeks like pooling syrup. "Draco was just trying to help me, that's all."

"Yes, Mister Potter, that much was clear. Very well. It appears I owe Professor Snape an apology. Lines tonight, I believe, in recognition that you are indeed exhausted, Mister Potter, as was so rudely pointed out to me. Fifty lines each," she stresses, staring particularly at Draco—and then suddenly _smiles_, "and you may take as long as you need to complete them."

She waves her wand, chalk floating up from its ledge to write _I will behave with decorum and treat others with respect at all times_ on the blackboard. It's as easy a punishment as all the others have been, although slightly more pointed. "Thank you, Professor," Harry says, absently rubbing his thumb over Draco's wrist.

Beside him, Draco makes a face, but Harry shushes him before he can say anything. Draco doesn't know how to do _nice_ or _gratitude_ to anyone other than Harry, so Harry has learned to run interference rather than let Draco botch their good fortune. It's almost a tag-team in many ways; Harry handling anything that requires emotion while Draco handles just about everything else. Draco loves the politicking that leaves Harry's head spinning and increasingly Harry tells him about Order of the Phoenix meetings, gathering insights in how to handle the next one.

Once McGonagall has gone, Harry has barely opened his mouth to ask for Draco's opinions when Draco himself stands up and positions himself behind Harry. "Put your head forward," he demands, the hint of lordliness more amusing than annoying.

"Er. But that was—"

"Now, Potter."

Very well. Draco isn't going to be swayed, and Harry isn't interested in fighting with him. "We have to do our lines," he says. He isn't interested in being studious, either, but his conscious nags at him until he at least pays lips service.

"I'll take care of them later, now put your head _down_. Or better yet, take off your robe first."

He freezes. He can't help it—tell any sixteen year old they're supposed to disrobe in front of the object of their attraction and every one will experience the same fluttery terror. "Er."

Draco seems to catch his discomfort, backing up so that his body heat ceases warming the back of Harry's neck. "Really, Potter, must you argue with everything? It's a simple request. Take off your robe. It's for _your_ benefit, anyway." Draco is talking too fast, the indifference slapped haphazardly over his words. "You've told me numerous times that I always get what I want, haven't you? Well, this is something I want. Remove your robes and if you're wearing a jumper, that too. It's more than warm enough here, so don't bother bringing up that excuse, either. Oh, very well, stop looking at me like that. Will you _please_ remove your robes and jumper?"

Draco can never really be _Malfoy_ around Harry. Any attempts fizzle away into nervousness, leaving Draco grasping at mannerisms and patterns, growing more and more nervous about whatever it was that made him retreat into Malfoy in the first place. It's adorable, really, and usually calms whatever uncertainties Harry has—Draco's nervousness isn't something to be shared, not the way his fear is. Draco's nervousness is something to calm and soothe.

Still seated, Harry turns and stretches out his arm, looping it around Draco's waist and pulling him flush against the back of his chair, shoulder pressing reassuringly against Draco's torso. The babbling vanishes immediately, replaced with the red flush that Harry can't help but reach up and brush his fingers against. He wants to stand up to taste that redness, the desire abrupt and powerful—Harry ignores it as much as possible. "All right. I've only got a shirt on underneath. Is that okay?"

Red and mute, Draco nods against Harry's palm.

"We really _should_ do our lines first," Harry says as he releases Draco, stands, and unbuttons his robe. "Fifty isn't that many."

"Will you just get it off?" Draco demands, responding predictably by lifting his head and glaring with all the aristocratic fervor he can manage. "I'll do the bloody lines for both of us, all right? She doesn't care, you must've understood that without me to translate."

"Of course I did. I'm not a complete idiot."

"Says the Gryffindor," Draco fires back. By now, though, Harry's got his robe off and Draco is staring fixedly at the little exposed V at his neck.

Harry tries very hard not to preen. He likes the attention, particularly as Draco seems unaware he's giving it, but more than that, Harry very much likes the confirmation. Attraction, both the being and the having, is not something he understands. Oh, he's fairly certain he's attracted to Draco—a succession of dreams have convinced him of that, especially when he wakes up sticky. It's Draco's attraction he's most unsure of, though. The manhandling of Draco's body that Harry now freely indulges himself in isn't innocent in _his_ mind—but it could be in Draco's. And given how little resistence Draco puts up, Harry could very easily push things too far. So when Draco stares at him, fixed and hungry and not the least bit innocent, Harry can't help but puff up in happy relief.

"Gryffindor's aren't stupid," Harry says mildly. He kicks off his shoes, shoving them on top the crumpled robe, and looks at Draco. "So?"

"Er," Draco says. "Sit down. Or, no, perhaps it's better if you lie down? I'll have to sit on your legs, of course, and the floor is hard, but I'll be able to do a better job of it and if you're lying down you might actually fall asleep and ... "  
"Draco." One word and Draco's miserable again, staring at the floor dejectedly. Harry can't possibly resist that and doesn't even try. Wrapping both arms around Draco's waist, he waits until habit takes over and Draco relaxes against him, head tucked in the crook of Harry's neck, one arm hooked over Harry's shoulder, the other braced against Harry's back. It's their favorite position, either standing or lying down, and Harry knows he's spent far too much time during each detention session planning on how to get his arms around Draco just like this. "What's wrong?"

"Other than your House declaring me public enemy number one?"

"Yes. Other than my House doing exactly what you want them to do."

Draco huffs a breath but doesn't say anything for a long moment. Long enough that Harry thinks he _isn't_ going to answer at all. "I'm scared."

His arms tighten without thought. "Of what? You haven't—your father hasn't owled you anything, has he?"

"Since the last message I told you about his plans for Christmas? No. It's nothing to do with him." Draco quiets again. Harry realizes they're swaying slightly, the mingled beating of their hearts setting a rhythm he hasn't noticed before now, but is irresistibly compelling. Draco's breathing is warm against his open collar and he loves how he can _feel_ Draco relax until almost his entire weight is pressed against Harry's body. "It's your lessons," he says eventually. "Whatever Dumbledore's teaching you. I'm not _asking_ what it is, don't tense up on me like that. I won't ask anything, all right? But ... it scares me. I don't like it."

Draco told him, once, every single step of his hair regime. Harry doesn't remember anything except that it smells like sandalwood whenever he buries his face into it. "I'm sorry." He's not sure what else he should say, or how he can reassure Draco—

Who's busily shaking his head, dismissing the apology. "No. It's _hurting_ you, Harry. Whatever he's doing is hurting you."

"It's necessary."

Draco pulls out of his arms so quickly that he leaves friction burns in his wake. Hands grip his shoulders, stormy grey eyes boring into Harry's with a fire that he has enough presence of mind to be frightened of. "I _know_ that, you selfish bastard," Draco spits out, raw passion and remembered arrogance mingling into something that sears Harry to the bone. "I know that you do whatever you're told not because you want to, but because you don't have any choice. I'm finally starting to understand the way your labyrinthine brain works, and I get that, Harry. I just hate that I can't do anything to _help_ you!"

Harry can't look away, no matter how much he doesn't want to see those thin red lines against the white of Draco's eyes. The pain and fear as bright as tears Draco won't ever shed and—and something _else_ that Harry is terrified of putting a name to. The something that keeps him up some nights, a comfort against the nightmares, no matter how confused it leaves Harry feeling as he turns it over and over in his mind. But none of that matters now because his arms are around Draco's waist again, pulling their bodies together inexorably, hips and bellies, and chests and finally lips, all brushing so lightly that the pressure is almost delicate enough to be written off as imagination. Almost.

It's not a very good kiss. Their mouths are too tight, breath bouncing off each other's skin until Harry's glasses fog and he starts feeling lightheaded. He knows his lips are slightly chapped and he thinks Draco's are, too.

It's still perfect.

When Harry finally releases Draco's mouth, he isn't surprised when Draco buries his face in Harry's neck. He holds Draco gently, ignoring the heated flush that scalds his skin. They're swaying again, but this time Harry thinks it's more like rocking and cradles Draco even closer. "You do help," he says into Draco's ear. "You always help me."

Draco makes a noise that could be disagreement but probably isn't. Neither of them seem willing to move, but eventually Draco remembers that Professor McGonagall keeps blankets in the bottomless bottom drawer in her desk. Harry uses the knife Sirius gave him—for the first time, Harry can simply be grateful it works instead of mourning his godfather—discovering a pillow as well as several thick, comfortable looking blue blankets. Draco wordlessly spreads them out on the floor, fussily making sure they're exactly right before positioning Harry with the same focused determination.

His weight is heavy against the backs of Harry's thighs, and even without the warmth of him, Harry thinks he could sleep from that reassuring pressure alone. His mind feels heavy and full and he doesn't object as his glasses are removed. When Draco starts rubbing his back, familiar and different from the change in angle, murmuring soft stories that he claims his mother used to tell him when he was very small, Harry lets his eyes close and drifts. He doesn't want to really fall asleep down here, because he'll just have to get up again in a few hours. Draco tells him to hush and relax and rubs Harry's back and shoulders and neck until Harry feels like he's floating and it's too much effort to bother saying he won't.

He doesn't know how he gets back to his own bed that night, only that when he wakes, he feels refreshed for the first time in nearly a week. And he doesn't remember a single dream.


	5. Chapter 5

SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1Halloween is one of Harry's favorite holidays. Better than Christmas, because no matter how much he enjoys the gifts and the love of the Weasley's and Hermione, Halloween is a holiday that's for wizards. Muggles have, over the years, discovered some of the details—like carving pumpkins—but for the most part, muggles view the holiday as something fairly silly and frivolous.

To wizards, Halloween is a celebration of magic itself. Halloween is when the best parties are, when people are most festive, even without the promise of presents. Harry loves this holiday, looking forward to it eagerly every year: which decorations will be kept from previous years and which new creations will awe them, the spectacular feast, and the fun of sharing something that Harry cannot fathom being tainted. It's as pure a moment as Harry has left and as the weeks grow colder and darker, Harry hangs onto the promise of Halloween to get him through his days.

He should have known better.

The hallways are deserted despite the remaining echoes of students running to classes. He knows Draco is waiting for him—lurking or stalking him, according to Harry's friends, and it's increasingly difficult not to correct them—but Harry cannot move. "We have to what?"

"I'm very sorry, Harry." Dumbledore looks sorry, too, his mustache and beard droopier than usual, the twinkle gone from his eyes. His skin has lost the pleasantly pink look that had sustained Harry for five years, now almost grey with weariness and upset. "There is too much significance in the holiday for Voldemort to overlook it."

"So I have to go," Harry repeats dumbly. "And miss the party."

"I do hope that we may return beforehand. The house elves have promised a special treat this year."

It's a paltry stab at Dumbledore's usual whimsy, but instead of reassuring Harry—as it's clearly designed to—it makes him look up sharply, eyes meeting Dumbledore's without any hesitation. It's the first time he's done so in weeks and it hurts. "Don't," Harry says, voice flat and hard. "Don't treat me like I'm just a sixteen year old boy after telling me I've got to do what even you can't. Pick one, Professor."

Dumbledore inclines his head gravely. He's nothing but an old man, anymore, and Harry hates that. Not _him_, still, thankfully—but no one enjoys having their illusions destroyed, their statues on pedestals come to disappointing life. Harry at least understands what is happening and knows better than to blame Dumbledore for it. Or at least reminds himself that he does. But he can't help but see how tired Dumbledore is. Being a general agrees with him about as well as being a soldier agrees with Harry: the same cracks and worn places are easy enough for Harry to see. It's enough to keep some kind of solidarity between them, the only two of the Order who understand just how painful this will really be. Harry clings to that as he receives his marching orders:

"Please meet me at the front doors, Saturday morning, nine o'clock sharp. And bring your cloak."

There are no admonishments to go to class, something Harry is grateful for. He doesn't want to go to class. He remembers the first month of school with desperate longing, when he'd been able to just turn everything off. To lock himself inside his own mind, floating through his days as an uncaring observer, allowing life to pull him as it wanted, Harry silent and still. All that wonderful, mind-saving ability to just let himself _go_—is gone.

Oh, he's still not angry the same way he was last year; he knows how futile that rage is, and how dangerous it can be. But he's still _angry_. All the looks and whispers from the past few weeks have already set him to boiling, and this—this is the final straw. Even Dumbledore, who knows he is just a stupid little boy, is trusting him with things Harry can't fathom.

It makes him furious, anger swirling into a rage that leaves him panting in the middle of the hallway. His fists clench, digging nails into half-healed scars until they bleed again. He's trembling, face flushed and growing damp as he struggles not to give in to the urge beating against his insides. He wants to throw things, kick walls, shout and scream—and _hurt_ things. People. Not just specific people, that at least he could understand. No, Harry just wants to hurt. It doesn't matter who—Ron is just as much a target as some random student that asks him to pass the butter over supper—so long as there's that sharp cry of pain, the tang of sweat turning acrid as fear saturates it ...

Harry remains exactly where he is, shivering. This isn't the first time he's had these rages, although this is the worst of them. He _has_ to get control over himself, he thinks. The saner part of him grateful that this is a relatively unused part of the castle. But relatively unused doesn't mean 'empty' and if anyone comes near him before he gets some control—it'll be bad, he knows. Very bad.

He whirls when something touches his shoulder, fists up, face drawn into an ugly snarl—which immediately melts—and reforms into a feral grin. "Draco. Sorry."

"Yes. You really are, aren't you."

The drawled words are suffused with contempt. There's no audience around them, but Draco's knowing eyes warn that there are some close by, and they need to pretend. Or maybe it's just that he understands Harry _needs_ the mock argument. Harry still doesn't know all the twists and turns in Draco's brain—he certainly can't account for the hint of pleased pride in muted grey eyes. He just knows it's there and thrills under it.

"Fortunately for you," Draco continues, "I'm going to offer you a free pass."

"Yeah?" Harry shoves his anger into the roles they've worked on, the moves they've practiced until they're instinctive. It's messy, hate and the need to break spilling over the edges so that Harry has to force himself not to move. Not yet, anyway—because it may be messy, but it's _working_. Draco is a target Harry can rage it, because Draco understands. And Draco will fight back. "And why the hell should I take anything from a sycophant like you, Malfoy? "

Draco's sneer is the picture of scorn, but Harry can see dancing grey eyes shade towards blue and the way Draco's body is tense with anticipation. "Racing," Draco pronounces. "The pitch is empty, this time of day."

Harry smirks, and takes the tiniest of steps forward. Draco holds his ground, but his body still manages to shrink just the tiniest amounts—enough that Harry feels even more the predator without waving a red flag before his face. Almost, Harry wants to laugh at how well they mesh together. "You just don't want anyone to see when I kick your arse, Malfoy. So what do I get, when I win?"

"_When_ you win, Potter? Your ego is the size of Hagrid's precious pumpkins and I'm going to take a great deal of pleasure in cutting it into itty, squashable bits."

Harry snarls. "You've never beaten me on the pitch, Malfoy, not in six bloody years of you using every dirty trick you know of." His grin is feral and dark, stretching across his face uncomfortably; Harry relishes ever millimeter of it. "This won't be any different, you arrogant prat. Now state the sodding terms."

"Winner chooses a forfeit. _Any_ forfeit." Draco's voice is arch and coy, perfectly comfortable in the face of Harry's anger. "First race," Draco says, "starts now."

Draco laughs as he wheels, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he dashes down the hall. For a precious few seconds, Harry remains still. He's afraid he'll try to tackle Draco instead of just race him to the shed—and anyway, it's an amazing thing to watch Draco run with happiness lighting his steps. A beautiful thing. If Harry were in a better frame of mind... but he isn't, body thrumming to go, to not let the arrogant git get too far away from him, to give in to the driving storm underneath his breastbone. So he leans forward and just lets himself go. Adrenaline adds extra speed as he gives chase, the anger throbbing in time with his foot-falls as he dodges a stray student and a hissingly startled Mrs. Norris. Harry ignores all of that, focusing on the fluttering black robes that fill his vision.

He's grateful—or at least, part of him is—that Draco's gotten so very good at reading Harry's moods, lately. Harry doesn't know how, but Draco always appears right when Harry needs a distraction the most, often brushing Hermione's and Ron's concern off with a well-placed jab that leaves Harry too angry—or too amused—to continue sulking. If they're alone, Draco uses words with devastating accuracy, tearing Harry into little strips before inevitably going for more physical methods of beguilement. Sometimes that means fighting, or racing.

Mostly, though, it means kissing. Lots, and lots of kissing. Whenever they can spare a moment, sometimes Draco _manufacturing_ them, if they haven't found the time otherwise. Harry never complains: Draco tastes like moonlight and ocean and he can never, ever get enough of it.

It's no surprise when Harry realizes he wants to do more than just _beat_ Draco. He wants to shove him up against that wall and channel his aggression into something else besides. Something full of soft skin and gasping, aching cries...

Sunlight slaps into his face, Draco's body thirty yards ahead reminding him that there is a race to win. When the Quidditch shed is in sight, Harry angles himself towards the slightly muddier edges of the path they run down, purposefully skidding and using the slide to gain a few precious moments. He's level with Draco now, both of them grinning as they give each other fiercely determined looks. Harry knows that calling the two of them competitive is similar to calling Hermione 'smart', and he's grateful that they can still _be_ competitive without endangering their new relationship. He never feels disappointment or upset when Draco wins—and he does, as often as Harry does—just determination to do better the next time.

He doesn't know what Draco thinks about their competitions, oddly. There's too much fierceness for Harry to tell what's really going on in Draco's mind.

Draco reaches the shed first, slamming the doors open as he grabs them to slow his momentum. "Ha! First race to me," Draco gloats, yanking one of the school brooms off its peg and waving it at Harry's face as Harry windmills to a stop. "I suppose you'll want best two out of three?"

"You said racing _brooms_, Draco."

"Actually, I just said racing. _You_ assumed." Draco grins, tossing him the broom he'd lifted off before taking one of his own. "School brooms, this time. I don't want another argument about who's broom is better."

"Because my Firebolt clearly is," Harry immediately responds, hoping his grin isn't quite so savage. His chest is heaving from exertion, vision full of black spots, but he doesn't think he's nearly as angry as he was before. Or at least, he's less likely to want to hurt something now and Harry's _very_ grateful to realize that.

"Rubbish. My Nimbus can do circles around your inferior Firebolt, Potter." Who's broom is better is an argument that started after their very first race, spilling off the pitch and into their detention, stopping only when Professor Snape shouted at them loudly enough that he woke half of Slytherin. Harry grins at the memory, then dives out of the shed first, kicking off and hovering in the air before Draco finishes closing the door. He needs this. "First one to the goal and back," he shouts and leans forward against his broom.

Wind howls around him, tearing at his robes, snatching gleefully at his glasses and messing his hair even more than usual. He never feels as free as he does when he's on a broom, loosed from earthly concerns to go wherever he points the shining handle. Even with the old, clunky school brooms that have a distressing habit of sputtering or jerking suddenly, Harry has total confidence in his skills. There's nothing he can't face when he's in the air, nothing unexpected that he can't compensate for. The broom beneath him is an extension of his body, controlled with instinctive need. Flying is intoxicating, the one pure pleasure he has left—made even more intense by knowing that Draco is matching him twist for turn for dive for feint, laughing as gleefully as he is.

It's perfect, or as much as Harry ever wants. The only dance he knows he'll ever truly enjoy with the only partner who's ever been able to come close to challenging him this way. They curve around the goal posts, far closer than any watcher would find comfortable, but that's okay too. There are no professors to watch and yell at him—not since after McGonagall's chat with Madam Hooch—and for a few hours, they can do the things neither of them ever did as children: play.

They race three times—Draco wins only once, bringing their score, he claims, to even—but they're too busy darting around, teasing each other with words and games, to try for a tie-breaker. As the shadows grows longer, Harry finally relaxes into that place he can only reach with Draco's aid, the place where he doesn't _care_. Not about what is happening, or might happen. He's far too busy grinning as Draco tries a feint that nearly ends up dumping him from his broom, and then mock-glaring as he checks Draco's body over for injuries.

Harry _loves_ to do this, especially. He's not fond of the surge of worry and fear—but feeling Draco go utterly limp while Harry runs his hands wherever he wants, Draco's head lowered meekly as he's lectured about hurting himself... It makes Harry's belly tighten and his mouth go dry. Sometimes he thinks Draco tries the more death-defying moves just so Harry will touch him like that—though Draco is careful to never repeat a move Harry's expressly forbidden.

The bell for supper comes as a shock to both of them. "Blast!" Draco says. "We need to have one final race."

A low, rumbling sound immediately follows the pronouncement.

Harry laughs, grateful that he can do so without the feeling of ground glass tearing his throat. "Your stomach says we better not!" he teases. Draco is far skinnier than Harry has ever imagined and reacts to missing meals very poorly. And loudly.

"One more race, and we'll still have time for supper," Draco wheedles. He circles around Harry, pouting as much as his pointed face allows—it's surprisingly effective, but then, Harry knows that he's biased. "Pleeeeease?"

"You're very pretty when you pretend to beg like that." They're so close that their knees bump together and Harry can't resist leaning forward for a short, sweet kiss. Draco submits, as he always does, eagerly turning his face up and opening his mouth so that Harry can touch and taste as he wills.

It occurs to Harry, sometimes, that Draco has never once initiated their kisses. He asks, with touches, or subtle movements of his body that indicate his willingness, or sometimes even verbally demands it—but it's always Harry who makes the first move. The arrangement strikes Harry as being off somehow, but he never stops to wonder about it for long. He knows Draco enjoys this as much as he does, and that's all that really matters to him.

Draco's cheeks are pink when they separate, and not because of the wind that still puckishly taunts them. "From here to the end of the pitch, a straight shot. C'mon, Potter. Surely you can't stand to be _tied_ with me."

Actually, Harry thinks a tie is the perfect way to end their afternoon, but his response is cut off by a shout from the stands. "Harry! Hey, Harry! Where've you _been_?"

Ron. And, as Harry looks down, Seamus and Zacharias Smith. It's a very odd threesome as Harry knows that neither Gryffindor likes Smith very much—most Gryffindor's don't, not after last year's D.A. classes. Harry wants ask Draco about it, since he understands people and their interactions far better than Harry ever will, but Draco's already brushing his fingers against Harry's in silent apology and shooting off towards the shed to put his broom away.

"What on earth were you doing with _him_?" Ron demands as soon as Harry comes to a hover near them. "I mean, I know McGonagall said that you were to be left alone, but why does _he_ get special privileges, too?"

Ron's jealousy of Harry changed over the summer, resentment and relief mixing fairly evenly until they canceled each other out. Harry is extremely grateful for that, but it doesn't stop Ron from being jealous of _other_ people and how they relate to Harry—and Draco's always been a very sore spot. Harry's convinced Draco to stop targeting Ron unless he really needs the kind of explosion Ron's so good at, but the two of them do _not_ like each other and Harry has no illusions of them ever declaring bosom friendship, for his sake or any other.

Harry's bad mood returns, a headache forming at the base of his skull that leaves him irritable and waspish . He wishes he could find Draco and beg another massage. Or just find Draco, period. At least he doesn't feel like hurting anything any longer, and relief keeps him from snapping. Well, snapping _too_ much. "Who says he isn't going to get into trouble?"

"Not if Snape catches him, he won't," Zacharias predicts darkly. "What were you doing out here with him? And why'd you disappear like that, anyway? I thought you were going to help me with Charms today."

"Sorry," Harry winces. He _hates_ sharing advanced charms with Ravenclaws, because Flitwick believes that having students teach other students is a good way to really learn. Harry's partner is inevitably Zacharias. Probably because Zacharias survives by the skin of his teeth and Harry is actually pretty good at charms. "Something came up."

Three faces immediately look grave. "Not another attack?" Seamus asks.

"No. Just bad news." He can't stand to see the speculation in their eyes or the way they look at him as if he is the sun just waiting to rise. Even Ron, who bloody well knows better. "Needed to get away for a while, that's all. Who'd you get paired up with, Zach?"

"Never mind that," Ron tells him impatiently. "What was Malfoy doing here?"

It's not an attack on Draco. Harry _knows_ that—but he still bristles defensively, his voice growing sharp and cold. "No idea. He was already flying when I got here." The lies come easily now. Both of them are practiced enough to build on what the other says with few cues; Harry wishes Draco were still here to help build the story he wants nothing more than to vehemently deny.

"And our Harry can't resist a challenge when Malfoy's about." Happy, affable Seamus is always good at deflecting tensions, slinging an arm around Harry's shoulder as he dismounts from his broom and starts walking back to the shed. "What was it this time, hey? Mid-air wrestling?"

Harry spares a single thought to worry what they might or might not have seen, then ignores it. He can't do anything about it and worrying will only make him more nervous. "Racing. He thinks that I'm cheating just because I'm a better flyer than he is."

"Ah, so that's why you were on school brooms! The little snot." Seamus grins, proud of his deduction and gives Harry a one-armed hug around the neck. "And you beat him, didn't you?"

"Course I did. Twice, even." His face hurts when he grins, throat closing so it's an effort to make himself speak. "Git challenged me to best two out of three. Like that'd help him."

"You won twice, so that means he won once." Zacharias takes the broom from Harry when they reach the shed, shelving it neatly. Zacharias is a strange person. He likes to spend time with Harry as much as he possibly can, often turning up at odd moments with a greeting that isn't quite casual enough to be truly cheerful, tagging along despite the cold fronts drifting his way. It's all very much like Peter Pettigrew, which is why Harry is trying to smile, to be nice and not say something awful, when Zacharias says, "He cheated, didn't he?"

The accusation is so unexpected that Harry reacts without thinking. "D—Malfoy really _can_ fly," he snaps, choking back the phrase _you land-bound arse_, "and no one's so bloody good they can't be beaten, not even—."

Not even the _Great Harry Potter_, whom Harry has yet to meet and really doesn't want to, he thinks. He doesn't say it, though. Three astonished faces are staring at him, and Harry doesn't want that astonishment to turn into something else.

So he takes a deep breath, walking into the thin sunshine and forcing his mouth into a smirk. "Anyway, I let him win. I like seeing him think he's got a chance before I show him who's really the best flyer at Hogwarts."

"And beyond!" Seamus crows. Arm once again around Harry's shoulders, he steers them into the Great Hall where dinner is just about to start.

Harry intends to grab a little food and sneak back to his room, but Seamus isn't letting him go. So he sits, and curses the fact that Seamus is left-handed and can eat while gripping Harry's arm. The few times Seamus is forced to let him go, Hermione is there, chattering about today's lessons and all the things Harry has to know, glaring so strongly whenever Harry tries to twitch away that he gives up. If she and Seamus are distracted, then it's Neville who demands Harry's attention with quiet, earnest questions: about the curses they just learned, or something that's happened that morning. Harry has to answer Neville, compelled by a curious mixture of pity and jealousy and true fondness that he hasn't been able to shake all term. He knows Neville doesn't understand why Harry acts so differently, but apparently Neville's not above using it to get what he wants. After him is Ginny, grabbing onto his arm when Harry finally gets sick of it all, holding him the way she never would have back when she had a crush on him, talking so quickly that individual words are impossible to understand.

Any movement Harry makes is matched and bested by whichever Gryffindor is closest, pinning him back into his seat. The barrage of questions and demanded answers is constant, hands far too familiar on his body to _actually_ pull him back the one time he makes a physical break for it. Food is shoveled onto his plate until it's nearly overflowing. Even Lavender joins in long enough to frown and mention that he hasn't been eating well, lately, and he'll finish every bit of food on his plate or she'll hex him to the table. She sounds exactly like Mrs. Weasley and Harry finds himself immediately loading up a fork, surprised when his shepherd's pie doesn't curdle in his stomach, the way he'd expected it to.

Harry waits for the anger to surface again, prompting him to do something mean and hurtful just so he can stomp back to his dorm—but it never happens. He can feel it simmering inside him, waiting, but not affecting him. There's too much genuine concern tempered with affection on the faces of his friends for him to be angry... and really, it feels good to be focused on like this, even though Hermione looks fierce enough to make an eagle whimper with jealousy.

He's not sure what's happened today, particularly, for them to act like this. Oh, he was angry and upset, but that's becoming less unusual as the weeks go by. Whatever the reason, as Harry's affectionately bullied and taunted into finally relaxing, he can't really mind it, much. It's nice. It's _normal_, just relaxing with his friends, and he hasn't had that in a while.

He can't help glancing over at Draco as dessert appears, everyone distracted just long enough as they search for their preferred dishes. Draco meets his gaze. He's sneering, of course, mouthing out promises of retribution the next time they meet—but his eyes are a soft kitten-grey, full of a contented pleasure. Draco knows what Harry's mates doing, of course. He probably figured it out back on the pitch, ages before Harry did—but there's no trace of anything but approval for his housemates' actions. Well, approval and maybe a little bit of jealousy. He seems to be throwing Seamus, who doesn't let go of Harry for long, diamond hard glares that fairly scream of possessiveness.

Not that anyone besides Harry is going to know it for what it is, of course.

When Harry's favorite type of custard is plunked down in front of him, the entire bowl with its contents untouched, Harry smiles without reservation.

A short, whispered conversation to Harry's left results in Seamus switching seats with Ron so that Harry is sandwiched between him and Hermione. "It's really no fair," Hermione says plainly, though very quietly. The art of private conversations while in public is a skill all boarding school students learn quickly. "You being part of the Order without us, I mean. You know all sorts of things that we don't."

Harry's rage resurfaces in a flash of red, infuriated to think that she means she _wants_ to risk her life and her academic career the way he is, that she wants to be forced into things she isn't ready for—but her gaze is sad and Ron's hand is large and heavy against his forearm, and Harry reminds himself that he's being an idiot.

Of course they want to know what's going on; they're young and inquisitive and they've both been involved since the very beginning. Pushing them away now is insulting, and anyway, that's not what Hermione is talking about. She doesn't want to know because she is being inquisitive, like this elaborate school problem. She wants to know because she's his friend. Because ...

Harry flushes, ducking his head as the real reason occurs to him. He's ashamed that he even for a moment considered she meant _that_. It's unworthy of her and Ron, and awful of him.

He bites his lip, looking down at his plate. "I'm sorry."

"No, you aren't," Ron says, his grin lopsided and charming. He starts attacking his treacle again, adding, "But that's okay. We forgive you."

"Will you please let us help?" Hermione continues. It's obvious they've planned this, or at least discussed it, and it leaves Harry feeling very queer to realize they have the same kinds of discussions that he and Draco have. Harry is not the collective student body of Hogwarts, and he doesn't need the kind of games he and Draco play, part manipulation, part confrontation. He _knows_ what's going on, so he doesn't need it.

Except, maybe he does.

Hermione takes his hand, curling her fingers against his. "I know there are things you can't tell us, and we're, well not _happy_ about it, but we understand and we want to _help_, Harry. We want to help you."

The memory of Draco's voice instantly rises up: _"I just hate that I can't do anything to _help_ you!"_

Harry's anger is gone, now. It can't stand up to friends he pushes away again and again—who keep coming back to him. Friends who _don't_ expect the world from him. Who just want Harry. Heat pricks his eyes and Harry shoves his glasses up his nose roughly. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I don't want to act like this."

"We get that, mate. But you're hurting yourself most by ignoring us." Ron's clearly been coached by Hermione, but he's not just repeating what she's told him by rote. Ron _believes_ this, or he wouldn't be able to say it with such conviction. "You don't have give us details, but you could maybe let us know something's up instead of running off to brood and getting yourself all worked up, yeah? Or going to pick fights with Malfoy."

"What?" Oh, hell. He freezes, torn between the overwhelming desire to stop lying. To tell them everything and how important Draco is to Harry—but he can't. He can't do that until after January, when Draco is legal and supposedly safe. It's too many months away. "I don't—"

Ron's snort ruffles his napkin. "Please, Harry. Every time you're upset you always go after Malfoy like he's the bloody snitch."

"Or he goes after you," Hermione mutters, but quietly enough that Harry's not sure he hears her correctly. "Ron's right, Harry," she says, raising her voice and distracting him with her earnest expression. "You really need to stop fighting with Malfoy. It only gives you more detentions with him and that's the last thing you need right now. And Harry, please remember to talk to us? Even if it's just to say how horrible all of this is."

Ron taps his chin thoughtfully. He's focused on the table, but there's a glint of humor tugging along Ron's facile mouth. "Or maybe," he says deliberately, "it's the way Goyle goes after the last piece of toast in the mornings. He nearly shreds it, you know, before he grabs the butter knife, and it's pulp by the time he finally eats it. Or maybe Hermione after the last copy of a book needed for homework. Or—"

"All right," Harry laughs. He's not _happy_, really, but between Draco this afternoon and his friends this evening, he's feeling almost good. Better, at least, which counts for a lot. "All right, I get it. No more hiding when I'm upset, okay? Or at least not much."

Hermione's nod is prim. "Good. I don't like having to blackmail Professor McGonagall."

Harry's jaw drops. "You _what?"_

"Well, you'd run off," she shrugs, her tiny little smile extremely pleased, "and I was worried you'd get in trouble."

Even Ron looks slightly amazed. "I didn't know you _blackmailed_ her into talking to us, Hermione, wow! What'd you—" Hermione gives him a _look_ and he instantly sighs heavily. Nothing gets past that look, as Harry and Ron well know. "Oh, all right," Ron says. "Anyway, Harry—up for some wizard's chess after dinner?"

"After you two finish your homework!"

Ron grimaces, but doesn't miss a beat. "Right, I mean, after we're done with our homework?"

Harry laughs again, and can't remember the last time he's laughed quite this much. "Sure. But how about exploding snap, instead? Neville, you got a new set—wanna let us try it out?"

Drawing the other Gryffindors into the conversation works and Harry lets them organize his evening with a smile. It's loud and boisterous and half of him misses the quiet of his solitary-but-for-Draco existence, while the rest of him rejoices at the lack of strain or tension as he interacts with the others. There's no hidden need for the Boy Savior. Just Harry, Gryffindor sixth year. It's been so easy to lock himself into a world where only Draco understands him, because Draco really does understand him best. But that doesn't mean his friends are clueless idiots, either. As bottles of butterbeer are handed out, one game of exploding snap turning into many more, Harry lets go. For a precious evening, he forgets about what's to come and realizes that he _can_ be soldier and boy also, so long as he has friends like these to help him.

That thought and the remembered softness in Draco's eyes become talismans to help him sleep at night and keep him going as it grows ever closer to Halloween.


	6. Chapter 6

Blood smells like metal.

Harry knows he knew that, somewhere in the back of his mind where a younger Harry remembers getting scraped from falls that are only partially due to clumsiness. He doesn't remember blood smelling _this_ metallic, though, like muggle coins rubbing against his mouth, filling his mind until he thinks he might blink copper. But then, he's fairly sure he's never seen quite so much of it, either. It covers him, a sticky paste that molds itself to his body and Harry is frantic to remove it, to find the clean skin that may or may not still be underneath. He doesn't. He's not sure he _can_, with his arms still trembling too much and his knees continually buckling.

"Almost there, Harry," Remus tells him. Remus isn't in much better condition than Harry, for all he's shouldering Harry's weight and practically dragging him towards the stairs. He's not completely covered in blood, at least. Only partly and really just exhausted and slightly shocky around the eyes. "Madam Pomfrey's waiting for us. She'll get you cleaned up and check that cut on your chest."

Remus is very worried about that cut. So are Tonks and Shacklebolt, who are still outside speaking with Dumbledore—who is also probably worried, though he hasn't mentioned it. Harry isn't worried about the cut at all, because he knows it's bleeding clear and clean with his blood, no one else's. It's the only part of his body that doesn't feel tainted. He touches it absently; pain screams through him, and he watches, bemused, as bright red drops drip from his fingers to splatter onto the floor, instantly turning into dirty, dark stains. He knows that he's in shock and that tomorrow or possibly the day after, he'll be... relieved. Or proud. Or even glad, although Harry thinks he's going to have to throw up a whole lot more before he can ever contemplate that feeling rationally.

The mission is a success. On Saturday morning Voldemort kidnaps nine muggles, just as Dumbledore had predicted. Freeing them, at least, was fairly simple; they're all back in their homes now, disoriented from the oblivate spells, but fine. Harry doesn't know what their deaths would have accomplished. He doesn't want to know. All he cares about is that they're safe, and Dumbledore is wearily pleased with how the battle went: Voldemort's lost a few followers to the Ministry's justice, and one is very dead.

Harry is truly not certain who killed Gregory Goyle's father. Just that it's his blood, Mr. Goyle's blood, that covers him.

They reach the infirmary just in time, an anxious Madam Pomfrey taking one look at him before conjuring a basin. "That's right," she murmurs. Her customary briskness has vanished into gentility, somehow shooing Remus away and getting Harry into bed without allowing the basin—which follows like a masochistic puppy—to ever be out of reach. Harry's crying while he empties every trace of food that has ever been in his body and her fingers feel cool and soft against his cheek. "It's all right now," she tells him. "You just let it all out while I take care of everything."

Harry lets her, too weak to fight and too uninterested in arguing. He shivers, retching, whenever's he's touched and the feel of magic through his body makes him want to scream. He feels raw inside, like someone's split him open and dragged sandpaper everywhere. It's from channeling magical energy, or so Madam Pomfrey clucks as she starts cleaning him with a soft, wet sponge. It certainly sounds right to Harry, though he's never heard of overdosing from too much magic, before.

He remembers standing there: magic surrounding him, blinding gold and so intense he felt like he was being dipped into the sun. He was holding it, or containing it, letting it build up underneath his skin so that Dumbledore could use it. _Take_ it, and that hurt almost as much as the magic itself did. He remembers screaming and screaming and screaming. Not stopping when Dumbledore collapsed, the image of that tall man and his even taller hat crumpling to the ground burned into his retinas. Harry was still screaming when he started to use the magic within him, tossing out hexes and curses that burned down the length of his arm, desperate to protect the others. To protect _Dumbledore_, who never stopped chanting, even when Harry ripped off his invisibility cloak and moved in front of him, the one thing Dumbledore made him promise not to do.

Harry hopes his cloak is okay. Tonks _may_ have told him she'd get it cleaned, but he isn't sure.

His mind is foggy, like the sticky blood that still covers him has leaked behind his eyes. Thinking is hard, his too-tight skull pressing down until he can't do anything but remember, over and over again. He struggles with the images, but Madam Pomfrey quiets him, shushing him, crooning something Harry thinks might be a lullaby. He isn't sure—he isn't sure of anything. Just that there's blood, so much blood, and that he did what he was supposed to and it _hurts_...

"Harry."

He blinks, sniffling. He's clean now. Time is moving in lurching jumps and Harry isn't surprised to see a clean Remus sitting beside him, while Tonks hovers in the doorway, watching him anxiously. She's looking at his chest, so Harry does, too: something blue and faintly glowing covers the slice that runs lengthwise from shoulder to shoulder. He has no memory of receiving the wound, only noticing it when a worried Remus pointed it out.

"I've got to go back, Harry," Remus says. "Madam Pomfrey knows, so you can talk to her about anything you want, or she'll get us, if you need. But I've got to go back tonight to make sure—"

"The muggles don't find out," Harry finishes, startling himself. His voice is so hoarse it's unrecognizable, ground down to nothing and heavy with age. "Okay."

Remus's arm moves, obviously reaching out for Harry's hand—he stops after only a few inches. Harry is grateful; he doesn't want to reject Remus, who is tired and hurting as much as Harry is. There's more salt than pepper in Remus's hair, now, more even than there was that morning. He doesn't need Harry's problems—

But Harry can't even think of someone touch him now, not even Madam Pomfrey. The haze is starting to clear from his mind, and as the pain starts to fade, he can feel how hypersensitive he is. The air feels too cold, too sharp against his face, his clothing sack-cloth rough. Thinking about being touched makes his skin shiver, the way a horse's does to remove a fly. If someone actually tries... Harry shudders.

He hates feeling this violent. As if he's a bomb, with an unknown trigger.

"You'll be all right, Harry," Remus tells him. "Madam Pomfrey can heal anything, you know, have you right as rain by morning. And Professor Snape's made you a potion, one that'll help you sleep. Help you not remember so clearly, either. Oh, yes," he says, smiling slightly at Harry's look. "I'll be taking it too. We all will. It helps, a little. Just—just remember that you were wonderful, Harry. I know it's cold consolation, but you were. We're all so very proud of you."

Harry wants to cry every time Remus says his name and it's only when he sniffles that he realizes that he is, silent tears dripping down his face to fill his mouth with salt. "Did—did I—" He wants to ask, _needs_ to ask. To know if Dumbledore has finally succeeded. If Harry really is that broken, unrecognizable thing. "Remus, did I—"

"No."

The word is a blessing, a benediction that comes with angel's wings, and Harry hears himself sob brokenly.

"No, Harry." Something cool touches his mouth. His body seizes up, but Madam Pomfrey is there to magically soothe him while Remus tips the potion into his mouth. It tastes like jasmine and a wild, twisting wind, filling Harry's mind with soothingly grey before settling fully into his body. It feels soft against his throat when he finally swallows. "No, Harry," Remus continues, "you didn't kill him."

"Then—Dumbledore—" Harry's slurring now, his mouth suddenly so heavy he can't control his lips and tongue the right way, but that's good, isn't it? His mind whirls, sleep warming the edges and making the memories, so clear and painfully sharp in his mind, grow fuzzy and dim, like something he's seen on television, or happened very long ago so the fine detail is blurred, the emotions not as intense, not an event that finished only hours before. "Or—"

"Harry, Voldemort killed him." Remus's voice is distant, but earnest enough that the words make sense. "Voldemort killed him to protect himself as he ran."

Remus's face blurs, the top of his head bulging grotesquely as Harry fights to keep his eyes open and his brain functional. He forces his lips to work one last time, grateful he can manage even parts of words. "Not—don't—lie—"

"I'm not lying, Harry." Remus's voice is so steady, so sincere that it has to be truth. "I'll take veritaserum to prove it to you, if you want, later. You didn't kill him Harry. None of us did. Only Voldemort killed anyone tonight. Now sleep, Harry. Let it go, please."

He feels himself sigh, shoulders unknotting as a wave of black settles over him like a soft, downy blanket, blacking his vision and muffling his mind. He's not a killer, is the last thing he thinks. He hasn't killed anyone. It's all still okay.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry wakes very slowly.

He's groggy, his mind clawing its way from sleep with difficulty. Memories or dream fragments, he doesn't know which, flash before eyes that are still heavy with sleep, telling him a story that makes no sense. He wipes at his eyes, grimacing at the grit he clears away. He doesn't understand what's going on, but he at least knows where he is: Madam Pomfrey's distinctive lavender and sage scent is as well known as a muggle doctor's disinfectant. But ... if he's in the infirmary, why does he still hurt? Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have let him sleep without giving him something for the ache in his throat or the queasy twist of his belly, right? Then again—several memories coalesce into something he can recognize and understand. The knowledge jolts him, and makes him think that maybe it was sleep Madam Pomfrey concentrated on. Not the little aches and pains.

It's then that his brain informs him that there's something very warm lying on top of him. It's not a blanket with a self-warming spell, either. Those spell try, but they can never really mimic the delicious heaviness that pours warmth through the pores of your skin, instead of just radiating against you. Or the steady rise and fall, underscored with a basso thud that Harry's body is trying to match.

There's another person in his bed.

Harry waits for the same kind of mindless terror, the _no, no, don't touch!_ he felt so strongly before—but it never comes. The body lying half on top of him is comfortable, deliciously so. Legs are tangled with his own, a face is tucked into Harry's neck, while an arm is carefully arranged so that it doesn't touch the light blue film painted over his chest. Long white fingers are bunched in the sheet that covers his waist, the breathing slow and steady and familiar—and Harry knows why he isn't afraid.

"Draco."

The slow breaths don't speed up; Draco's been awake for some time, probably. His hand begins to travel up Harry's chest, carefully skirting any fading injuries. "You sound like shit," he says. Elbow hovering in the air so as not to disturb the blue paint, Draco places cool fingers against Harry's throat and strokes gently. It feels incredibly odd, but good. "Are you feeling any better, at least?"

Memories start to gel. Harry remains quiet while his brain sorts through everything: from the unexpected meeting Friday night, to the awfulness of Saturday—except, it isn't as repugnant as Harry thinks it should be. It's still _bad_. He knows it's only the potion that's kept the horrific nightmares away. The immediate horror Harry thinks he should remember has faded, dulled into the kind of ache he bears for Cedric and Sirius. In fact, Harry thinks he could possibly go down to classes today if he had to. He's intensely grateful he _doesn't,_ have to, though not nearly as grateful as he is that the all-consuming emotion he remembers from yesterday is gone. Mostly, he feels sleepy and content to do nothing at all for a very long stretch of time. It's a reassuring kind of feeling.

Whatever Snape wants for this potion, Harry will give it to him.

"I'm okay, I think," he says slowly. His voice sounds a little less gravelly this time, though it's still barely recognizable. Speaking hurts a great deal. "Er, no, I'm not. But I'm not as bad as I could be. Should be? I think I'm babbling."

"You are—and you probably shouldn't. Madam Pomfrey said that your throat will hurt the longest."

Madam Pomfrey discussed Harry's injuries with Draco? That doesn't make any sense and Harry blinks. Are there still traces of the potion inside him? That would explain why his thinking still feels ... sideways. "Er. I am in the infirmary, right?"

He can feel when Draco smiles against his shoulder, the skin bunching and moving in patterns that are sweetly familiar. "Yes."

"And it's, um, probably Sunday morning?" Sunlight shines through the white curtains, making the entire room feel like a bright, airy cloud. It always reminds him of flying and it's one of the things that makes his frequent stays in the infirmary tolerable. "Monday at the latest?"

"No, it's Sunday. I think it's past noon, so it may not be morning any longer. Still Sunday, though," Draco adds, just in case Harry's forgotten already.

Harry wants to Draco what he's doing here, but he doesn't know how to. "Er," he starts—and then realizes he actually doesn't care why. He's just glad he's here. Harry swallows back the half-formed question and ends up coughing slightly.

Draco immediately sits up and reaches for a cup of water, helping Harry drink a few cool swallows before setting the cup down again. He's very careful as he puts on Harry's glasses for him, concentrating so as not to put out an eye or jab Harry too hard. Harry tries to smile in gratitude, but as sight returns his jaw is too busy dropping.

Draco is covered in bruises.

One large, mottled green one covers most of his stomach, patterns of yellow and purple-edged blue travel up his torso and down his right arm. There are red, twisted lines on that arm, old scratches—or half-healed ones—like someone raked their fingers down the length of Draco's forearm. A thumb-shape mars the clean line of his neck, smaller red marks on the other side making it very clear just what was done to him. His lower lip is puffy, a hint of darker pink where it's cut. One eye is nearly swollen shut, still the black of a fresh bruise.

Harry makes a strangled noise. He can't stop hunting for new bruises, new hurts to catalog. He's already on his knees, staring at the greenish bruises that cover Draco's stomach. He grips Draco's pajama bottoms, frantically certain that Draco's hurts don't stop at the draw-string edge. He needs to see every bruise or cut or scrape—except there's a hand on his arm. It's warm and when Harry tries to ignore it and tug anyway, it exerts a little bit of pressure, stopping him.

"I'm perfectly fine," Draco says, trying to smile as much as his split lip allows. "You know I don't respond well to magical healing, we've talked about it. Anyway, it doesn't hurt. It just looks hideous."

The tiniest, most insignificant of tremors in Draco's voice when he says 'hurt' makes Harry see red. Adrenaline slams through his system, mixing with Madam Pomfrey's magic in a burst of green-gold light that flutters behind Harry's eyes.

Draco catches his hand before it connects with Draco's skin, holding it. "Do you think I'm lying to you, Potter? It doesn't hurt and I'll heal, end of—"

A low, rumbling noise cuts Draco off—it takes Harry a moment to realize that it's _him_ growling. Draco tries to roll his eyes and brush it off, but he doesn't object anymore when Harry tugs at his pants and that's much more important. Harry tries to be gentle as he lays Draco's body bare, but his hands shake a little. The front of Draco's thighs are fine, with only light bruising on the shins, as if he'd been kicked. On his back, though... There are dark, mottled bruises right above the kidneys. Harry touches those almost reverently, knowing how much they'll hurt, while his eyes sweep over the even, regular lines that travel down to Draco's legs. As if he'd been shoved into a chair, or a table, or ...

Harry isn't aware that he's only half-dressed and Draco is now fully naked. All he knows is that Draco is hurt. Someone _hurt_ him, beat the crap out of him—and Harry wasn't there. He couldn't stop it then, and can't make it better now, not if Madam Pomfrey can't.

"What happened?" he asks. His voice sounds even stranger than before. It's still hoarse and hurting, but the roaring in his ears, the deafening thud of his own heartbeat, twists the sound further. Draco makes no move to stop Harry from touching him or to cover himself back up. Gooseflesh rises over his skin—there are freckles on his belly, very faint because of the bruising, but Harry can see them—making hair so fine and pale that it's nearly invisible reach up to meet Harry's touch. "Who did this to you?"

"I already said, I'm fine," Draco says—or starts to. The look Harry gives him stops him mid 'fine'; he swallows, for the first time looking just the smallest bit nervous. "It's nothing, Harry. Just an ... altercation at the Halloween feast." Draco's eyes don't rise from the fingers fitfully stroking over his navel. "I said some things."

"What things?" In his mind, Harry is making a list. Finally, all the training and new spells Dumbledore has been teaching him will have a use. One Harry would not feel the least bit of remorse for afterwards.

"It's not important," Draco tries, clearly intending to bluster. "I'll be better in a day or two, and _you're_ certainly not leaving the infirmary, so I'll keep you company and—"

"Draco!"

Draco winces. Anyone else—literally anyone, including his father—and Draco would have blustered, lied, and manipulated his way out of answering. With Harry, all those skills seem to melt away, leaving a sixteen year old boy who doesn't even know how to ask the right questions, let alone provide any of the answers. It hurts Harry to see Draco like this. But it's useful, so Harry maintains his glare even as Draco says, "Yes?"

"Tell me."

Draco fixes him with a glare Harry doesn't believe for an instant. "It's irrelevant. It happened, it's over, and—" Draco licks his lips, squirming lightly under the weight of Harry's gaze. "All right, fine. I don't _know_ what I said. Happy now? The punch was spiked and I drank a lot of it and I don't remember what I said."

Harry rests his hand very, very gently on Draco's chest, stroking him the way he would a cat. The roaring is still there, but distant: Draco is very upset—his lips a thin line, eyes darting here and there, hands fisted to stop their trembling. All signs that Harry's learned to understand instantly—and if Draco is upset, then Harry instinctively moves to calm him. That's the way it works, always. When Draco is upset, Harry pushes his own problems aside as irrelevant. So he strokes, careful not to press too hard and inadvertently hurt Draco, and stays as calm as possible. For Draco's sake. "So you got drunk. And you said something you don't remember. Okay. Do you remember what it was about?"

Draco swallows, and then tilts his head, his expression bored and slightly annoyed. "What it was _about_?" he drawls. "If I don't remember what I said, how can I possibly remember what it was about?"

He wants to scream and rage, demanding that Draco tell him _right the bloody hell now_. He can't, though, so he tries to stay calm. "Because you're lying to me."

Anger bleeds into the fear, but doesn't eclipse it. "I am not!"

His heart is beating too fast, and it takes so much effort to stop himself from panting, but Harry does it—he has to, or Draco won't tell him anything. Eyes locked with Draco's, Harry leans forward just a little bit and says, "I always know when you're lying."

"Please, you can't possibly—" Draco breaks off abruptly, because he knows that Harry never lies to him. Ever. Harry needs the freedom to _not_ lie to someone, and he knows Draco knows that Harry has chosen him. Sometimes he thinks Draco carries that burden like its an honor. "Always?"

Harry nods.

Any hint of bluster or defiance vanishes into a kind of fear and wonder that makes Draco look very young. "Oh."

Air settles between them, so heavy that individual particles are practically visible. Harry stares at them, trying to give Draco the space he needs—but he's not patient, can't be when Draco looks like this. "What did you say, Draco?"

Draco turns his head, light highlighting the pointed edge of his jaw. "I really don't remember what I said, exactly. Besides, I'm hurt, you shouldn't try and make me—" Another soft growl cuts him off. "Right. Um. It was about you."

Almost, Harry gives in to his desire to shake Draco until the information he wants falls out. "You've said just about everything about me before, Draco. Called me every name in the book, wizard or muggle. I can't imagine it was anything worse."

Shifting, Draco gives a hollow, unamused little laugh. "Insulting you is one of my favorite pastimes and I'm just letting you know now that I absolutely refuse to give it up. You're a brilliantly easy target, and I was upset."

Draco's hand is creeping up Harry's side to press against him with a hummingbird's strength. It's a request, one Harry understands immediately—but he hesitates. How can Draco want _that_? He looks like a toy after Fluffy's gotten through with it! Except as the seconds stretch, Draco's eyes grow dim and dull in unhappy acceptance—however much Harry can't understand it, Draco _does_ want it. And what Draco wants is up to Harry to provide.

Making soft noises under his breath, Harry slowly eases himself down onto Draco's body. His arms dig under warm, bruised flesh to wrap around neck and back, holding Draco as tightly as he dares. Draco inhales slowly when Harry first lets some of his weight rest against him, shivering as their bodies touch, his muscles tense. Too tense and Harry freezes, afraid that he's hurt Draco or done something wrong—then _oofs_ as Draco's arms wind around his back, pulling him down firmly so they lay pressed together. A sharp hip presses into Harry's belly, while his shoulder digs awkward against Draco's bruised neck. He wants to rear back, re-attempt his landing so it's smooth, gliding down instead of half-falling. He doesn't, though. Draco is clinging to him, mouth pressed against Harry's collarbone, body warm and growing pliant against him. Moving isn't _possible_.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Harry lets his fingers tangle into silver-gilt locks, stroking until Draco relaxes again. Freeing Draco's face, Harry curls around him a little more tightly, trying to reassure while getting Draco to talk to him. "Why were you upset?" he coaxes quietly.

"You were gone, you prat, and I knew—no. It doesn't matter." It matters. It matters a great deal, but Draco is speaking too quickly to interrupt now. "It's all rather pathetic, really. I knew the drinks were spiked, but I kept drinking them. Pansy was trying to get me to dance even though I refused every time, the harpy, and then … And then Zacharias Smith came over and said something I _also_ really and truly don't remember, except that it made me furious. More angry than I've ever been in my life and _you've_ made me plenty angry before. I said something back. I wish I knew what, because he turned white so it was clearly devastating. The next thing I remember, we were screaming at each other about you, and ... and your housemates heard us. Decided to defend your name."

The entire world freezes. Harry can feel the exact moment time stops, immovable and solid and _wrong_. Everything is wrong. The whole world has gone insane, using boys for wars their fathers couldn't finish, and Gryffindors attacking someone. Physically, not just tossing hexes and a few jinxes that will wear off without any lasting harm.

Harry knows it was probably ten against one, if not more, because he used to be one of those who dreamed of giving it to Malfoy just one time, back when he was Malfoy, not Draco. Harry can't even _blame_ the ones who did this to Draco, not really, even though he wants to. Wants to hate them. They've been pushed and prodded by an expert who got drunk and was _worried_ and forgot to play his part. The opening had to be too good to resist, Harry knows that, but can't forgive them for it. Can't forgive them for hurting Draco, even if it's not that bad, not irreversible, even if Harry understands. He does understand, and Draco will get better, and Harry doesn't know how he can explain to his friends that they've got it so badly wrong. Dangerously wrong. Because Draco isn't the enemy. He never was.

Draco is _Harry's_. He is everything Harry wants and needs and Draco hasn't said 'no' even once, and that makes him Harry's. And nothing, not even his best friend who has more cause than anyone, is allowed to hurt what's _his_.

He hears Draco whisper his name, voice cracking slightly.

Time starts again.

"I'm sorry," Harry says because he has no idea what else to say. 'I'll hurt them for you' is a lie because Harry doesn't want to hurt them. Much. 'I wish I could make it better' is more accurate, but just as useless. Harry can't do anything to help Draco, not if Madam Pomfrey can't.

All he can do is hold Draco as tightly as his bruises allow and bury his nose in fine, cool strands of hair. So he does for a very long time.

"It's okay." Draco's hands unclench from around Harry's back, flattening and smoothing themselves against Harry's naked skin. "I absolutely forbid you to let go, and I expect to be coddled—but it really doesn't hurt that much anymore."

That sparks another flare of anger, because what he means is _it hurt a lot worse before and it still hurts now_ and Harry remembers the red marks on Draco's neck. "Who tried to choke you?"

Draco tenses. "Choke? Potter, you're so melodramatic."

That isn't an answer. Harry tightens his fingers in Draco's hair, the fine strands pulling taut. "Who?" he grounds out.

Draco makes a noise in the back of his throat, body arching up—and then goes utterly limp. "Zacharias Smith. But—but I don't remember that well. I could be wrong."

He could be. That's okay. Harry intends to verify and then personally express just how unamused he is. The anger is still there, dangerous as it dances up and down his spine—but Harry is tired. Exhausted, really, and the memory of the day before is mixing with the anger, making it darker and scarier. He's almost grateful that he doesn't have the energy to do more than acknowledge that he has quite a few Gryffindors to beat up when he gets out of here. As for Zacharias ...

Harry shifts himself so that he slides down Draco's body, eyes level with Draco's shadowed neck. Tilting an unresisting chin upward, Harry studies the bright red thumb-prints framing Draco's Adam's apple, finger prints curling around the circumference of his neck. The marks are still bright and raw enough that it should be possible to see the finger prints, so Harry can use them like muggle policemen do, hunting down the perpetrator. Since he can't, Harry leans forward and brushes his lips against them.

Draco inhales. "What are you doing?" The question probably wanted to be accusatory, but mostly it sounds uncertain.

"Making it better." Harry has no idea what he's doing. There's been too much in the past few days, even the parts he's slept through, for him to think coherently about anything. All he knows is that Draco is hurting because of him and even though the memories of yesterday are distant and muted, the events are still _there_ in his mind, changing him from who he was into who he is now. And if he thinks about it too closely—

Harry doesn't want to think anymore. Kissing Draco feels good, the salty-clean taste of him pushes everything else from his mind except tasting more of Draco. It's simple and clean and he thinks it makes Draco feel good too.

So he does it again.

He kisses every bruise, even delicately licking the cut in Draco's lip. He sucks on the unmarred part of Draco's neck until a pink bruise, totally unlike all the others, rises up on his skin. Harry moves over every part of Draco's body, arranging the compliant boy into whatever position he wants. He tastes torso and belly, arms and back, the dimple right above Draco's buttocks and the fragile skin behind his knees. No part of Draco is safe from Harry's explorations, but he doesn't think Draco minds very much. It's not worship, not really, although Draco wears the expression of a blissed-out sultan as he reclines on Harry's bed. Harry doesn't want to put a name to what he's feeling, because that will cheapen it. It just _is_.

When he works his way back up to Draco's neck, he licks the mark he made until Draco gasps and squirms a little. Lifting his head, he finds lips parted expectantly for the kiss Harry gives him, slow and thorough. It's unnaturally quiet in the infirmary. The room feels curiously closed, as if it's divorced from the rest of Hogwarts, hanging suspended in its own little bubble of time and space. Given the castle, it isn't an unrealistic guess.

Harry concentrates on kissing Draco until the other boy is breathless and dazed and gasping into Harry's mouth—and then he kisses him some more. His body rocks against Draco's, eliciting a soft moan that sounds so good, Harry has to repeat the move just so he can hear that hushed, airy sound again. It's beautiful, like Draco is. Even when covered with bruises caused by Harry's friends defending his honor.

He cups the back of Draco's head, tilting him to that perfect angle, while his other hand trails distractedly down Draco's body. He's not really searching for anything, or he doesn't think so—but when he finds a very hard cock amongst wiry curls, Harry makes a pleased noise into Draco's mouth and starts stroking.

Immediately, Draco jerks, tearing his mouth away. "Harry—what—you shouldn't—"

"Shhh. You don't get to tell me what I should or shouldn't, Draco. Not eve you." The hoarseness in his voice doesn't sound so raw anymore, instead darkly sexy and hopefully compelling enough that Draco will stop objecting. Draco hasn't tried to move yet, anyway. Not that Harry will let him. He nips the joint of Draco's jaw, placing wet kisses up the line of it to find an ear to nibble on. "Let me."

"But I should—"

Harry growls, a low, annoyed sound that makes Draco shiver and buck into his hand. "Don't. Let me."

This isn't the first cock besides his own that Harry's handled, but this is different than the fumbling around he did with George. That was two boys who happened to be horny and friendly, George willing and oddly patient as they explored each other behind the Burrow. _This_ is Draco, and that makes everything different. Harry rubs a thumb over the head, pleased to find dampness pooling there already. Draco's cock is hot and comfortably heavy in his grip, just long enough that Harry can flick his wrist the way George taught him, which always feels so good when he does it to himself. Draco's sharp cry is a very pleasant reward.

Draco trying to twist away from him, though, isn't. "Harry, I shouldn't—"

Harry _bites_ Draco's ear, hard enough to make him yip. He sits up just so he'll look more imposing as he glares down. Draco looks amazing like this, long and pale and stretched before him—at least, he does so long as Harry doesn't look at the discomfort in his expression or focus on the bruises for too long. "What's going to get you to let me do this?" he asks.

"What? Harry, you're _getting me off_."

"Clearly." He's not entirely certain why Draco's so upset about this. After all, it's Draco who's getting a decent (Harry hopes) hand-job—but watching the way Draco's eyelids flutter over red-rimmed eyes gives him an idea. "Did you sleep last night?"

The change of topic seems reason enough for Draco to let his mouth fall open, pink lips and red tongue and wet-shiny teeth and Harry wants to lick over every part of it. He doesn't, though. He wants Draco to answer him.

"Er, no, not really," Draco replies hesitantly.

Harry decides that no, he better not ever tell Draco that he looks cute like that. Not if he wants a repeat. "Well, you need to sleep. I won't have you watching me while _I_ sleep, either. That's just a bit creepy, Draco, and I want to go back to sleep soon. I think Madam Pomfrey said I'd be tired a lot, and I am." He isn't all that tired, but he's fairly certain that if he lies down and closes his eyes again, he'll fall asleep easily enough. It makes a good excuse, at least.

"So?" There's the barest hint of challenge in Draco's question and Harry knows he's right.

Smiling, he leans down to kiss Draco's mouth. "So, you'll be nice and relaxed when I'm finished with you and very good to cuddle with while we _both_ sleep. Now be quiet."

Another kiss and Harry starts moving his hand again. He watches this time, fascinated by how flushed Draco's cock is. His hand moves up and down, faster now that Draco's not objecting, occasionally swiping a bit of precome off the tip, using nimble fingers to spread the stuff so his grip becomes slick. Draco bucks under him, making the prettiest sounds as he's worked closer to completion. The same flush from his cock spreads over his face, down his neck to his chest, where the bruises look particularly dark against a full-body blush. Harry tightens his fist, tugging a little harder and faster. He doesn't know if this is what Draco prefers—something he very much wants to find out—but he's fairly certain Draco is enjoying it regardless.

He wants to see Draco come. He wants to see what Draco's face looks like and everything about this, so that he'll never lose the memory.

"Oh, God," Draco whimpers. His hands are fisted in the bed sheets, his entire body straining as he gets closer, face screwed up into something that represents both pleasure and pain. Possibly more pain, Harry decides, growing concerned. Draco strains and writhes under him, gasping out staccato bursts of air. His cock is throbbing, finally becoming red with need—but he does not come. Harry leans down again, brushing his lips against Draco's and almost gets a nose smashed into his glasses when Draco lets out a sharp cry, head whipping back and forth. Harry can taste the desperation there, bitter and acrid, and with his ear so close to Draco's mouth, he can hear the just-barely-audible whimpers that come from the middle of Draco's throat.

Draco clearly wants to come. And can't.

Frantic, Harry wracks his mind for any possible reason why a sixteen year old boy shouldn't be able to come when getting a decently passable handjob. It shouldn't be possible—unless Harry's doing something wrong? Unless Draco doesn't _really_ want this and he's preventing himself from finding release because he wants Harry to go away, stop touching him?

Draco whimpers again, louder this time, and the forlorn ache in his voice makes Harry wince. No, Draco definitely wants this, the note of pleading is clearly for more, not less. He's frantic, storm-grey eyes wide and fixed on Harry, desperate and pleading for the release he can't seem to reach—

On his own.

Oh.

Harry blinks, hand slackening its grip as he processes that thought. Another pained moan from Draco shakes him out of his surprise and back to his task. Leaning forward to brush his lips over cheek and jaw, and the soft skin of Draco's earlobe, Harry whispers, "It's okay. Come on, it's okay, Draco. I—come for me."

Draco moans, a low broken thing that makes Harry's belly tighten and his own cock throb with need—but then Draco's coming. Finally coming, back arched with a bow-string's tension, Draco's eyes squeezed painfully tight while legs jerk and spasm as his cock pulses once, then twice before spilling all over Harry's waiting hand. Harry watches, entranced. He tries to memorize absolutely everything because this is something he never, ever wants to lose. He doesn't dare even blink as Draco slumps back onto the bed, breathing too hard to say anything. Yet as soon as he can, Draco blinks back into focus and looks cautiously up at Harry.

The look is intensely erotic. More so than watching Draco come, or even the feel of wetness drying over his fingers. Because Harry knows exactly what that look is asking. He sees it every D.A. class when his students look to him for approval, and now Draco's looking up at him. Not about a hex or a curse cast properly. About _this_.

It's a terrifyingly heady feeling. "Good," Harry says dumbly. "That's—good."

Draco's smile—so shy, so achingly uncertain—slays Harry. He's mindless and dazed as he fumbles for his wand, cleaning Draco and then himself—he doesn't even _remember_ his own release, focused as he was on Draco's—with a mumbled word. Draco remains totally pliant as Harry slides back into bed, pulling the covers over both of them. A second later, Harry remembers to take off his glasses. As he settles back down, he gathers Draco against his body, cradling him.

"Um. You," Draco begins.

"Go to sleep," Harry tells him.

"But you—"

"Ah ah." Harry waits, smiling when Draco obediently goes still. "No. Sleep now, Draco."

Draco turns in his arms, nose brushing Harry's. He's so close that Harry can see every detail even without his glasses. There's a surprising amount of not-grey in Draco's eyes, and Harry loves to find each multi-colored bit. He counts the blue flecks today. He's passed twenty by the time Draco blinks, long, pale lashes fluttering against his cheek as he exhales. Slowly, Draco tucks his head underneath Harry's chin. He snuggles closer, as if he's cold. "I'm glad you're back," he whispers. It's not what Draco wants to say, Harry knows, but that's okay. Harry understands.


	8. Chapter 8

There's a curious deadness to the air, a stifling sense of being shut up in a room no one is going to enter and no one is ever going to leave. Harry doesn't mind that feeling, even craves it, but it's a strange thing to feel in the infirmary. There's usually at least one other patient stretched out on the beds as Madam Pomfrey bustles about, healing everything short of death with a brisk wave of her wand and a scathing glare at anyone who dares disturb the sanctity of her realm. At the very least it's Madam Pomfrey herself who's about, fussing as she examines the empty beds, ensuring their preparedness, before turning to her actual patients and ensuring they're healing at a rate she deems worthy, their comforts taken care of with an alacrity that leaves her patients stuttering and confused as to what's just occurred. Instead, there's nothing but that queer stilless in the air that means they are well and truly alone.

It's not that Harry _minds_ that, precisely. He's grown very fond of being alone. It's just that, despite the feeling of being forsaken by the rest of the school, Harry is terrified that Madam Pomfrey or Dumbledore or, god forbid, _Snape_ is going to walk in on them any moment.

And since Draco is delicately lapping at the head of his cock, Harry really, _really_ doesn't want any interruptions.

"Draco," he croaks, "what're you doing?"

The response is a soft, wordless hum of lips pressed up against Harry's glans, tongue flickering out a moment later to find the narrow v at the base of the head. It sends him gasping, hands flailing and eventually curling around the metal bars at the head of his bed, gripping tightly enough that they creak in abused protest. No matter how much a sixteen year-old boy fantasizes about a mouth doing exactly this, the reality is almost as terrifying as it is arousing—made worse by Harry's inability to see much more than an impressionist's swirl of unshaped colors. Forcing one hand to fumble about on the bedside table, he stabs himself in the nose and the cheek before finally getting his glasses securely over his ears, only to nearly break them when Draco sucks the entire head of Harry's cock into his mouth.

"Oh, God," Harry says. And then again, when Draco chuckles without removing his mouth.

His neck hurts as he cranes it forward, blinking to make his eyes focus, but he ignores those little difficulties. His entire being is focused on: Draco, stretched out between his legs, forearms pressed against Harry's inner thighs to keep them from closing, his own legs bent at the knee to kick his feet idly back and forth in the air. It's a thoroughly casual pose, almost childlike in its innocence, but Harry can see the tension in his shoulders and the way Draco glances up every few licks, trying to gauge Harry's reactions. His mouth is swollen, as if he's been at this for some time, his eyes hazy with enjoyment. Best of all, Harry can see the way his arse shifts and moves—pale and pink, perfectly rounded, the way Harry thought only girls should be—rubbing himself against the mattress even as he licks the length of Harry's cock.

And then, abruptly, he stops. "You might make noise," Draco says petulantly. "I'm a natural, of course, but as I've never done this, encouragement might be nice."

It never occurs to Harry that he might be more experienced than Draco—if a few handjobs, one humiliatingly bad attempt at a blow job (giving), and receiving one that, given current realities, wasn't nearly as good as he'd thought, can really be counted as 'experienced'—but once Draco says it, Harry wonders how he could've ever doubted. In all sixteen years of Draco's life, Draco's trusted only one person before Harry—so whatever Draco's received, he's certainly never given _this_ to anyone else. That thought makes Harry's hips buck up of their own accord, the need to orgasm overwhelming. It takes every ounce of Harry's willpower not to give in. "Don't say things like that," he orders breathlessly. "Please. Not—not yet."

Draco's eyes get big as Harry's cock twitches on its own, thrusting up until it almost touches his nose. "Okay," he says, faint against Harry's command. He curls his fingers around the base of Harry's cock, a hint of insecure wonder and that shyness Harry loves, coloring his actions. He doesn't stay shy for long, though, particularly as a slow stroke pulls a choked-off cry from Harry. It's a toss up which facet of Draco is more beloved: the hesitant uncertainty no one but Harry gets to see, or the cockiness that holds not a trace of maliciousness. "Oh, don't tell me you're objecting," Draco teases. "I know it's impolite to start while your partner is sleeping, but you did look pretty like that and I ... couldn't resist."

Couldn't resist? Harry groans, helpless, as Draco takes half of him inside the sweet heat of his mouth, sucking with gradually increasing pressure. He knows what Draco is saying underneath the careless tone, but his ability to speak is inversely tied with what Draco is doing to him. He doesn't know what words to use to reassure Draco, anyway. He understands that this is a different game then most fumbling teenagers play with each other, but his instinctive knowledge of the rules only goes so far. "I," he says, thrashing as his balls are rolled while yet more of his cock disappears into Draco's mouth. The sight is breathtaking, Draco's lips even pinker against the red flush of Harry's cock, cheeks hollowing as Draco thoughtfully sucks.

"Yes, you," Draco says, pulling back—and then grins, pleased, when Harry moans and blindly reaches to bring him back, "are still being very quiet. How am I supposed to determine what best makes you scream, when you aren't screaming?"

"People," Harry gasps out. His hand finds Draco's naked shoulder and clutches it, trying not to buck upwards so needily or add to the collection of bruises Draco already sports. It's one of the hardest things Harry's ever done, the need to press and _take_ too strong to ignore. "Coming in."

"You know, I think you've never had a blow job before." Draco is smirking, his early admittance to being a novice himself ignored in favor of giving Harry a look so full of smug pleasure that Harry has to shiver. He knows—_knows_—that Draco's teasing gets him as hot as it does Harry, those pale globes flexing appealingly as they pick up speed. Harry wants to grab them and has to forcibly relax his fingers. "And yet, you wanked me so skillfully last night."

Mentioning that is deliberate; Harry can _see_ the calculation in Draco's eyes, but he can't stop himself from moaning as he remembers the way Draco twisted and bucked against him, waiting for his word—Harry's word—before finally finding release. How those long, white limbs had flailed against the bed, torso heaving, cock so pink and perfect against Harry's palm, Draco whimpering with pleasure that Harry gave him, allowed him to feel ... "Bastard," Harry hisses, hips rocking up to smear a bit of precome against Draco's mouth like translucent lipstick.

"Oh, will _that_ please you?" Draco hitches himself up slightly, staring directly into Harry's eyes as he carefully licks his lips clean.

Red. His tongue is red and his teeth are small and sharp and he looks as wanton as any of the girls in the magazines Dudley doesn't know Harry has glanced at—mostly in disgust, except there's no disgust here. Oh, no. Harry frantically thinks that if Voldemort used _this_ method of torture, Harry would break within moments. "Oh, God."

"You said that already. What I'm looking for is a 'yes, Draco, your skills are unparalleled, please continue' or 'no, as brilliant as you are, I prefer wanking myself'. Well, noises that indicate positive or negative will work, too, since I'm not certain you can properly pronounce 'unparalleled' right now." Long fingers trail up Harry's cock, squeezing just right before sliding back down to card through crisp curls. "Although," he continues, "I suppose 'oh, God' is really answer enough."

Harry gurgles helplessly.

There's something so joyous behind Draco's eyes, shining past whatever expression he wears, the way a bright summer's day never truly allows for shadows. "Well, I suppose it'll have to do. I wasn't much more coherent last night, either, was I? Or I could have told you how much I wanted to do this, then."

The words are jumbled and confusing, their meaning—it's important, Draco's told him something important!—slipping out of Harry's grasp the moment Draco slides his lips over the tip of Harry's cock and sinks down as far as he can. It isn't very, but Draco's hand curls over the remaining length, squeezing and stroking while his mouth licks and sucks, bobbing back and forth. It's far more clumsy than George's attempt over the summer, but Harry doesn't care, too wrapped up in _who_ it is to care much about _how_.

He cries out when Draco's gag-reflex is accidentally triggered, the muscle spasms against the head of his cock driving him mad with lust. Then he has to bite his lip to stop from shouting when Draco purposefully repeats the move. Clever fingers curl around his balls, squeezing them lightly, while Draco grows bright red, trying to suck in enough air to keep himself from passing out while simultaneously sucking _Harry_ and trying to hum. It's a losing battle, but the determination with which he tries is as powerfully erotic as what he does.

Harry's mind is bending as Draco works him harder and faster, his wet, agile tongue finding every good spot Harry has and introducing him to a few more—but what finally does him in is Draco's eagerness. Draco _wants_ him to come, his eyes almost desperate for it, burning with desire to take whatever Harry gives him. It's impossible to withstand that and Harry doesn't bother trying.

Heat boils in his belly, dragging along his spine until his hips thrust erratically into Draco's mouth. He manages an "urk," that must have been more informative than Harry thought, because Draco immediately backs off until his lips surround the head alone, both hands pumping Harry's cock as orgasm finally spills over.

Harry is distantly aware of Draco moaning as his mouth is filled, a bruised throat repeatedly swallowing while a thin trail dampens Draco's chin. Eyes aching from being stretched so wide, Harry is unable to tear them away as Draco takes every bit of his release, going so far as to swipe his finger over his own chin and suck on it before returning to Harry's cock, suckling gently until not a trace of come remains anywhere. Only then does Harry allow himself to collapse against the bed, Draco crawling up to tuck himself over Harry's body.

"Oh, God," Harry says again. He has enough presence of mind to wrap his arms around Draco's warm body, marveling at the thundering pace of their hearts, trying to calm his breathing while Draco cuddles close to him, but that's about it. His mind is well and truly blown.

"You're very fond of that phrase," Draco tells him, his voice slightly muffled by Harry's collarbone and hoarse from recent activities. It sounds _good_. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Hurt? Pain is a distant memory, a bad dream barely recalled. "No. Did I hurt you? You're the one all over in bruises."

Draco's hand curls around his belly, body settling more heavily against Harry's. There's something damp against Harry's thigh, but before he can identify it, Draco says, "Madam Pomfrey came by an hour ago and gave me something. It tastes foul and it doesn't get rid of the bruises, but it does stop them from hurting."

"That's good." Harry curls his palm around Draco's neck, finding the bruises there by memory and stroking them. "Don't want you to—she what?" He sits up abruptly, eyes wild as he searches the room, as if he expects her to pop out from behind one of the neatly made beds, brandishing a wand and chastising them for their behavior. "Madam Pomfrey was here?"

Draco's hands are cool and smooth as they gently push Harry back onto the bed, stroking his chest and stomach until the heaving stops. "Yes, she was here, about an hour ago to check on both of us. That's why the gunk is off your chest, by the way."

Harry automatically glances down, noting that his skin is unblemished except for the faintest of pink smears, traveling in a jagged line from nipple to nipple. He shivers when Draco traces it lightly; it tickles. Harry isn't all that tan but he still looks dark against Draco's near-albino paleness. "She saw us," he says. His voice is very small.

Draco continues to pet and soothe him, settling on his side with his head propped up by a fist. His chin is very square like that, his nose almost too pointy, but Harry can see his eyes clearly and that is all that matters. "Yes, she did. Made some comment about Dumbledore's foolishness, went about her business, and then left like a good lackey."

"Madam Pomfrey is not a lackey."

"No, she's a gifted healer who doesn't appreciate Dumbledore mucking about with rules that are there for a reason—her words—but she also mentioned that the two of us together are rather adorable, the cow, and that we're better for each other." Draco leans down to place a kiss right at the crest of Harry's shoulder. "Why is it the rules are always meaningless for you, hm? Anyone else and I'd be threatened with expulsion for climbing into bed with you like this."

That one phrase—and not the threat part—is enough to send Harry shivering, certain bits twitching with lazy interest. "The rules never seem to apply to me," he says slowly. "Too many other people break them, long before I have a chance, I think."

Air snorts out over his skin, stirring the fine hairs there. "Oh, right. So you and your little friends sneaking out of your dorm before Christmas of your first year is someone else's fault?"

"No, that was Hagrid's actually, and my friends aren't little." Harry's grin is wide and welcome, and he wants to freeze this moment, body sated and calm and warm from Draco's presence, while his mind engages in the twisting, mocking battle that he's come to love. He is purposefully not remembering anything, concentrating on this moment and only this moment. "Hermione's almost as tall as I am, and no one's taller than Ron. Even Charlie's shorter."

Draco's brows quirk and then smooth. His opinion of the Weasleys has steadily risen, Harry's patient application of endearing stories and black condemnation when Draco slips up slowly accomplishing their intended goals. "Charlie—that's the dragon-tamer, right? Saw him at the tournament, two years ago. He's quite fit, isn't he?"

The chuckle bubbles out of him, a fountain of happiness and relief mixed until Harry can't tell one iridescent strain from another. "Yes," he says, leaning down to brush a kiss over Draco's ear, causing him to squirm and make a face as he wipes it dry again. "And yes, he is quite fit. Molly Weasley created a lot of beautiful children."

Blond hair flies as Draco's head pops up, pale eyebrows drawn into an unmistakable scowl. "Are you trying to make me jealous?" His tone is light, the menace underneath totally manufactured, while his eyes search Harry's anxiously. Anyone else would think him sneering, hard and coldm the way they have always seen Malfoy. "I know the littlest minx's had a crush on you for years, and don't think I won't stoop to the nastiest types of hexes to make sure none of them come near you. Half the school's in love with you, and I don't intend to share."

The words are rude, the threats mildly worrying, but Harry doesn't hear that. He's learned to ignore Draco's bluster, parsing his speeches down to whatever emotion or thought he's too busy covering to really acknowledge. All Harry hears is fear: that this is just a fluke, that it is Harry's old friends that he will return to when he comes to his senses, that Draco means nothing to him. Draco probably isn't even aware that his hands are closing around bits of Harry's flesh—he'll sport bruises on his ribs from Draco's hold—while his body burrows instinctively closer. He's too caught up in emotion to pay attention to those little details, and Draco Malfoy is _never_ caught up in emotion—except with Harry Potter. The significance makes Harry's heart hurt.

Smiling, Harry leans in for a kiss that is long and sweet, for despite the gasping sigh Draco breathes into Harry's lips, their mouths never open. "Ginny's chasing Neville," he says, his voice low and quiet in the empty room. "Ron's mad for Hermione, everyone knows that except Hermione. The twins've got a girlfriend and boyfriend, respectively, and I'm too young for Bill or Charlie—and I think Bill's maybe dating someone. Besides." Draco tips his face up to accept the kiss Harry gives him, eyes remaining open, moving back and forth as they study Harry's face. Harry deepens the kiss, actively working to erase any uncertainty or question, and then says, "I don't want anything but friendship from them."

Grey eyes blink, hazy and unfocused. Draco is prettier than any of the pictures that hang on the castle walls, sweet enough to make the pinup magazines that Harry knows several of the girls have stashed away in their rooms blush with envy—and it's Harry that's given him that dazed, endearing look. It makes him understand just how Draco can go about all day with that smug look on his features since Harry's pretty sure that thinking of this will keep him looking smugly satisfied for days at a time, oblivious to everything else around him.

"And... from me?"

It's not a very Malfoy question to ask, and Harry knows that it costs Draco a great deal to force the words past years of training and his own stubborn pride. A Malfoy should never ask for such blatant reassurance—and Draco shouldn't ever _need_ to. Aristocrats don't need things like that, certainly not from a dark-haired boy, raised as a peasant before finding out he's still not quite the prince.

But this is Harry, and rules trip over themselves to break when he approaches.

Fortunately, Harry likes giving reassurance because far too often, he can offer nothing at all. "I know what I want from you," he murmurs, leaning in for another kiss. Draco moans softly as his lips are parted, his mouth taken—Harry can taste the lingering bitterness of the potion he'd drunk and his own come—looking thoroughly debauched when they finally separate for air. "Don't worry," Harry whispers against his mouth. "I'll let you know what that is."

The noise Draco makes is one part frustration, three parts yielding lust, tingling through Harry's body to make him think that maybe Draco's jaw isn't hurting _that_ badly and he'll agree to more practice. He opens his mouth to ask, knowing long before the first syllable forms on his tongue that something will interrupt him; it's just the way things are, for him.

The sharp knock echoes through the room, as disapproving as knuckles rapping on wood can be. "There are pyjamas by your bed, boys," Madam Pomfrey's voice calls. "Please dress yourselves."

"Damn it!" Draco's curse is heartfelt, staring at the join between Harry's legs hungrily.

Harry mentally echoes the curse, though he obediently looks around to find a stack of clothes folded neatly on the bedside table, as well as a veritable mountain of candy that he hasn't noticed before—getting your cock sucked creates the most amazing kind of tunnel vision. Dressing quickly, Harry has to work to keep his grumbling airless and private. He doesn't want the rest of the world to return, bringing things he's spent the last hour determinedly not thinking about, memories and understanding locked away in a box at the back of his mind. He wants to stay here, with Draco, safe and secluded while the world deals with its own problems for a while.

But that has never been Harry's fate, and he tells himself he should be grateful for getting even this long to forget. It's cold comfort and Harry can feel the rise of bitterness, acid bile against the back of his throat. To distract himself, he waits until Draco's head is trapped by his shirt before reaching between still-naked legs to fondle Draco's balls. They are heavy and soft against his fingers, comfortably fitting against his palm and it takes a surprising amount of effort not to squeeze them to the point of pain. Draco gasps at the touch, wet and harsh, surprised pleasure strong enough to make Harry's grin turn sharp, struggling to free his face while not moving his lower body even the tiniest bit. Panting fills the room, each wet breath echoing off stone walls. The immediate acquiescence is very pleasing to Harry and he tugs and rolls Draco's sac for as long as he thinks he can get away with, before drawing his fingers teasingly up a hardening shaft—and then lets go.

"Hurry up," Harry says, smiling angelically. "Wouldn't want Madam Pomfrey to see you like that."

Draco's glare is pure malice as he yanks on the thin cotton pants provided, forced to sit cross-legged on the bed in an attempt to hide the tent in his pants; but he's biting his lip and leans close to Harry as soon as the other boy is seated.

They are settled just in time, the door opening to reveal a frowning Madam Pomfrey. She gives them both disapproving looks that Harry, at least, doesn't buy for a single moment. If she really had a problem with either of them, she never would've allowed them hours of uninterrupted time—no matter what Dumbledore might've told her. Draco doesn't know her quite as well as Harry, though, and the pressure against Harry's shoulder grows firmer.

"Sit still," she tells them. "I'm going to check you both over." Her wand flickers in a complicated movement, pale blue light spilling from it to fill the air around them. It feels like gauze when it brushes against Harry's skin, light and diaphanous, as coolly smooth as silk. The sensation isn't uncomfortable to Harry, though Draco shudders as his neck is touched. "Well. You're both doing better, although Harry, you still need a few more days rest."

There's a curious sense of surprise in her voice, as though she'd expected Harry to be in worse shape than he is. That tallies with Harry's own private estimates of his rapid healing, and he slips an arm around Draco's waist, thumb worming under his shirt to rub against the nearly pointed base of Draco's ribs. As wonderful as Professor Snape's potion is, he knows what's truly helped him heal and recover; brooding is never good for convalescence.

"What about Draco?" Harry sees no reason to hide, as it's obvious she knows what's going on—and if she didn't, the heavy musk in the air is a dead giveaway. He flushes as he notices it, but merely tightens his arm around Draco's waist. "Is he doing better?"

Madam Pomfrey's mouth thins down to a stern line, looking offended that her medical skills have been questioned. "His bruises shall be gone in two days' time. I suppose that's reason enough to keep him in the infirmary."

Harry blinks, since that isn't what he'd been implying, but Madam Pomfrey is flicking a light green mist at Draco that makes him shudder as it slips under clothes to penetrate his skin, and Harry is too busy holding him while the tremors ease to remember to glare. When Draco finally calms, he leans heavily against Harry and says, "Ow."

"That did not hurt you," Madam Pomfrey snaps back, then suddenly smiles at both of them, younger and pretty for that one moment. "He's fine, Harry. I'll let Professor Dumbledore explain what's gone on while you two were... sleeping. In the meantime, eat some of the chocolate your friends have had delivered while I see about getting you two a proper supper."

"Thank you," Draco says as she leaves. Both of them stare at him, surprised to hear a real note of gratitude in his voice, but it's Harry he's looking at when he says, "That's what happens when one doesn't eat for twenty-four hours, Harry. One becomes hungry."

His tone is insufferably logical, but it still takes Harry a moment or two to remind his body how to function properly. "We can't have his Highness hungry, can we? Otherwise you whine so horribly. Here." He tosses a bag of something that looks too expensive to be from Honeydukes at Draco, who catches it nimbly, tears it open and pops a piece of what looks to be dark chocolate into his mouth with a quiet moan of joy.

Harry is immediately jealous.

"Try some." Draco breaks off another piece, passing it over blithely. "This is from Pansy. She always sends me Orrie's special dark chocolate when something's gone wrong. Sometimes I'll whine a bit just to make her think I'm really in need of it. Stupid bint."

The chocolate is rich and heady in his mouth, the scent of it sending his mind into a slow loop-de-loop while flavor rushes through his body. "What _is_ this?" he asks through a full mouth. "And of course you'd call one of your friends a stupid bint."

"She _is_ a stupid bint, Potter, and she's not my friend." Another piece disappears, Draco wearing an expression that makes Harry want to jump him right then, just so it can be _him_ that makes Draco look so positively blissful. His jaw works slowly, obviously savoring the piece, and it is only the threat of Madam Pomfrey's imminent return that stops Harry from biting it.

He eats the second piece Draco hands him, concentrating on the taste to help him calm down. "She sends you bits of heaven in silver foil and you don't consider her your friend?" Harry isn't being acrimonious, really, he's genuinely interested in how Draco views the students in his own house. It's not something they talk about much, the conversation usually shifting to how Draco needs to remember that he's _acting_ when he hurts Harry's friends. "That's not very nice of you."

"No, it's not." Draco reaches over Harry for another handful of candy, unfolding his legs as he leans back so he can dump his prizes onto his stomach. "You don't like anything cherry-flavored, right? And if I'm nice to her, she'll think she has a chance of marrying me when we graduate."

"She'll _what_?"

Draco's grin isn't precisely happy as he opens up a bag of toffees and begins feeding them to Harry, one by one. "She's wanted to be a Malfoy since the first time she ever visited me at the manor. I think she was probably about five, and I'm fairly certain I decided I was a pouf shortly after she told me all about the big wedding we were going to have, just how much tulle would be in her gown, and that it would all just be perfect."

Harry isn't sure how to respond to that, so he leans forward to let Draco help him finish the toffee. It's a pleasant enough distraction, but he can't calm his thoughts even as Draco's tongue twines with his own. Harry's not jealous, not really, understanding that love, or even affection, plays a very small role in what Draco's talking about. But the sheer callousness of marriage for financial gain is anathema to him.

When the final toffee is gone and their mouths are both swollen, Draco says, "Don't go all Gryffindor on me, Harry. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'd rather be a squib than marry her, and in a few months I'll be disinherited and nowhere near the catch I was. In the meantime, there's more chocolate to eat." Draco bats his eyes, an obvious contrivance to cover his more genuine shyness: "May I have some?"

"You may," Harry says, throwing himself into the distraction. He doesn't want to be reminded of what will happen when the doors to the infirmary open again, and spends the next few minutes calmly determining if chocolate tastes better with or without the taste of Draco to accompany it. The answer is with, of course. Plastic crinkles as Harry lowers himself over Draco's chest, determinedly hunting down the last lingering traces of sweetness in Draco's mouth while Draco holds himself utterly still beneath him. He loves how quickly Draco submits to him, giving his body over to Harry's wants and whims without a single qualm. It is very hard to pull himself back when footsteps echo through the room, a magically-enhanced warning.

Madam Pomfrey is very pointedly _not_ looking at them when as she crosses to the nearest empty bed stand and raps on it sharply. A platter of sandwiches instantly appears, followed by a jug with beads of water trickling down the sides as it reacts to the warmth of the room, and two goblets. "You'll both be very hungry after this healing," she says, "so eat as much as you'd like. Less sharing this time, please."

Red blooms on Draco's face but he keeps his eyes on Madam Pomfrey, on the off chance she actually looks at them directly. "It's not polite to eavesdrop."

"Actually, I couldn't hear anything," she says blithely, "so I wasn't. Eat up, the Headmaster will be in to see you shortly."

The casual confirmation that they have been spied on for who knows how long keeps them both very quiet as they eat the entire platter full of sandwiches. Both jug and platter magically refill themselves whenever their contents are low, a boon since both Draco and Harry are _starving_. Draco keeps his head down as he eats, staring at the bedclothes tangled around their socked feet. He's an intensely private person, Harry knows, who hasn't spent the last five years discovering bits and pieces of himself splashed on the front of the Daily Prophet at the most inopportune times—and only occasionally the truth. Harry is ashamed to realize he feels a bit of grim satisfaction that Draco is so upset by this—he can't remember Rita Skeeter without his mouth puckering, as if he's tasting something sour—so he says nothing. There's nothing to really say, anyway; learning to deal with this kind of attention can't be taught, and Harry's never done a spectacularly good job at it, regardless.

"It's humiliating," Draco says when the platter somehow determines that they're both full to bursting and doesn't refill itself. His eyes move as he traces the embossed vine that decorates the golden edge.

"Yes," Harry says. "It is."

"We should get her sacked."

Harry's smile is very soft, as is the kiss he presses to the corner of Draco's mouth. "Okay."

Draco's lips twitch and his eyes meet Harry's reluctantly. "You're not supposed to humor me, you know. It's insulting."

"Oh, yes, terribly so. You tell me you want to sack a woman who's saved my life several times, I say _okay_, and that means I'm humoring you."

Draco is grinning now, discomfort forgotten—or at least distanced. "It's all in the tone, Harry. You Gryffindors have no sense of nuance."

Harry isn't as good at denial, but he tries to grin back as he plans his response. He's still not nearly as quick at thinking up comebacks as Draco is, which only lets him in for more mockery as his protracted silence is taken advantage of. Another second or two and Harry knows that Draco's smile will turn mischievous and he'll say something truly terrible that would've sent the old Harry scrambling to wring Draco's pale neck—which of course reminds him that someone has actually tried to do so. 

Ignoring Draco's jerk of surprise, he leans forward to reexamine Draco's neck: the bruises are more green and yellow today, but they're still obviously there. Harry worries about what he'll do, when next he sees Zacharias Smith.

A breath of air swirls through the room, a silent announcement that the Headmaster has joined them. Harry knows without looking up that Dumbledore is healthier than he's been in months, confirming it when he takes in: hair that no longer wants to stand upright and wrinkles that seem fewer than the last time. He can _feel_ that Dumbledore is stronger, his presence filling up the room with the winter-taste of magic, the way it used to when Harry was small and easily impressed.

He can't help but be impressed now, again. He isn't entirely certain what Dumbledore did on Saturday—and really doesn't want to know—but he knows that it was an incredible bit of magic and that it hurt Voldemort very badly. That he is sitting on the bed across from theirs, eyes twinkling like sparklers, looking fit and well after only a day's worth of rest is a feat. It's also immensely reassuring; Harry doesn't like it when he has to worry and distrust the closest thing he's ever had to a true parent in his life.

"Good evening," Dumbledore says, beaming at them. "You have both rested and eaten?"

Draco has gone utterly still and silent, so it is Harry who says, "Yes, sir."

"Good, good. I confess, I am not quite certain where to begin. There are many things that we can talk about, and one must always begin at the beginning. The problem is discovering where that beginning is, and separating it from those fascinating ideas that wish to distract you."

This is Dumbledore at his most inscrutable, the rambling old man who sounds silly enough to walk himself into a wall rather than move around it, and Harry finds his spirits lifting again. The more obscure Dumbledore is, the better things tend to be for Harry. "What's going to happen to the ones who hurt Draco?" he asks. His fingers thread together with Draco's absently, squeezing reassurance. "Have they all been caught?"

"Ah, Harry, one can never truly catch all the members of a mob. I do believe it's part of the definition of one. Professor Snape, however, has been most zealous in identifying the perpetrators. I'm afraid that the only house with a respectable amount of points right now is Slytherin, and ten boys will be spending the next month serving detentions, something that he and their head of house both agree is acceptable. I will not tolerate physical violence in my school," he adds, the quiet breath of hardness in his voice more frightening than the blackest of threats. "I find such actions to be abhorrent and have every confidence that the students in question will understand this." _Or else_ is an unnecessary addendum.

This seems to wake Draco up, prompting him to push himself upright and press his shoulder to Harry's. His expression is mulish and stubborn, but there's a quaver in his voice as he sneers, "And yet you allowed us to fight all term?"

"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore begins, and then pauses. Harry has no idea how Dumbledore has interpreted Draco's flinch; Harry barely _felt_ it, and he has an arm snaking around Draco's waist again. "Forgive me. Draco, if you and Mr. Potter were ever to truly fight, be certain that my reaction would be no different than it is now."

Draco blinks, glancing over at Harry questioningly. Harry just smiles, again sliding his fingers down the curve of Draco's hip. It's no surprise to _him_ that Dumbledore knows—between McGonagall and Dumbledore's own frequent observations of Harry, frankly it'd be more surprising if he didn't know. But Harry knows that Draco views Dumbledore with a great deal of mistrust and will not be at all comfortable having the old man divine their inner thoughts with no effort. Harry's too used to it to care anymore. Well, to object to it, at least.

"I must insist," Dumbledore's voice interrupts them just as Harry starts caressing Draco's thigh with his thumb, "that both of you promise me that you will not take reprisal."

_That_ grabs Harry's attention. His head whips around, as furious at that moment as when Draco first explained to him what happened. "No way, sir. Er. Respectfully. But no."

"Harry, as headmaster, it is my authority and right to punish those who flout school rules. You, however, are still a student and you must also obey those rules." It takes all Harry has not to laugh in Dumbledore's—the man who most encourages Harry to flout those precious school rules of his—face. "If you do so, I will have to punish you, as well."

"So punish me!" Harry doesn't care that he's adding finger-shaped bruises to Draco's hip. He is too angry, red flames licking the back of his eyes while blood drums a war-beat in his ears. He isn't thinking, knows he's not, and doesn't give a damn. Someone has hurt Draco and that thought leaves no room for anything else.

"No." 

The word _should_ have come from Dumbledore, who looks sadly resigned and almost lost—probably because Harry is again his own person and not the little automaton he sometimes thinks Dumbledore wants him to be. That it comes from _Draco_, however, yanks the bottom out from Harry's stomach. Eyes wide behind his glasses, Harry looks at Draco in disbelief. From Dumbledore he expects opposition. Not from Draco. "What?"

"I said _no_, you idiot," Draco repeats, again somehow managing to sound fond and exasperated at the same time. It's a skill only Hermione's mastered, previously, and it's a little scary that Draco's picked it up so quickly. "Tell me, Potter, what do you think will happen if you swoop down on your fellow Gryffindors like some sort of an avenging angel, hm? They'll be so pleased to face your wrath, your friends. So understanding that I'm not _really_ the arrogant prat I've been the last five years and have only been pretending this year. Come on, Harry! How do you think your friends will react when you're angry at them for _defending_ you?"

Harry's grip doesn't loosen, not even when Draco shifts uncomfortably. He knows what Draco is telling him, of course. He understands that if Harry does this thing, then Draco's cover is blown wide open and instead of gradually allowing his friends to get used to a new and improved Draco, Harry will be forced to chose—his friends _or_ Draco. And whichever one he picks, the other will be lost in a wave of hatred and betrayal. It's a choice that haunts him, when he thinks of it, which isn't often. He's grown introspective, yes, but denial is a sixteen-year-old's best friend and Harry courts it when necessary. He's lost too much to lose yet more—

—but he cannot _stand_ that someone has hurt Draco, and it's hard to remember everything when his blood beats so strongly in his ears.

"Besides." Draco's sneer isn't quite where it should be, but the effort makes Harry soften. Draco is trying to keep most of who he was as he figures out who he is, each facet of himself battled for over ice tilted at some impossible angle. "I don't need your help to get my own back. I'm a Slytherin. Vengeance is practically our creed."

He's not entirely certain if Draco means that. He is _supposed_ to believe that Draco has the matter well in hand, and certainly it's possible that he's spent most of the night beside Harry contemplating different ways to humiliate the ones who hurt him; Draco is just as good at that as Malfoy has ever claimed to be. But Dumbledore is still sitting before them, serenely listening as Draco promises retribution without raising a single objection. And Draco is not looking gleefully inward, as he usually does when caught up in some complicated plot. Instead, he looks desperate.

Harry sighs. Silently, he promises that Zacharias Smith belongs to him and no one else, and then gives in to the pressure of two pale-eyed stares. "Fine." The word is shoved between clenched jaws, but he means it. That seems to be enough. "I won't make them pay." Not them, but him, who is going to understand in no uncertain terms that he is _never_ to touch Draco again.

Draco probably understands that this is compromise, not capitulation, but his smile is pure and the hand that creeps under the blankets to curl around Harry's thigh does not tremble. Harry covers that hand with his own, using the touch to help him let go of his anger, or at least force it down to glowing embers in the back of his mind. Calm again, Harry returns Draco's smile and looks at Dumbledore once more.

He's not at all surprised to see speculation underneath the slightly befuddled expression, but he is surprised to see relief. What, does he truly not want to punish Harry for his transgressions? That's stupid, Harry thinks. Harry knows how to take his lumps and doubly so when he knows he's in the wrong and just doesn't give a damn. But then Draco is squeezing his hand, the warm pressure enough to distract Harry, and Dumbledore's mask of pleasant bemusement is back firmly in place.

"Very good," he tells them, beaming happily. "As for you, Mr. Potter, our events from the previous day have been kept closely guarded... "

Harry's grin is quick and boyish as he chimes in with the headmaster to say: "So of course, everyone knows about it. I thought they might, sir." How much detail, though, Harry dreads. This is different from when he came back from the Chamber of Secrets, aching and hurt but vindictive, as his actions proved he was not the Heir of Slytherin and also returned Hagrid to his proper place. Or even when he returned with Cedric's body cold against his own, raging against the disbelief that he met over and over again.

This time, Harry doesn't want to tell anyone of what happened the day before. Not even Draco, who is twisting around to hold _him_, instead of being held by him. "I'm all right," he mutters.

"What was that potion?" Draco asks, the words aimed above Harry's head. "The one Snape made for him?"

"It is a compound similar to Dreamless Sleep," Dumbledore explains, affecting no surprise that Draco knows about the potion. "It allows Harry to distance himself from events occurring twenty-four hours before consumption of the potion."

Draco mutters something under his breath, worrying at his lower lip until Harry's attention is fixed solely on white, even teeth pressed into pink that grows redder and redder. Harry wants to lean over and bite it for him. "So he can't take it more than once," Draco says, oblivious to Harry's focus.

"Not unless something occurred today that he wishes to distance himself from."

Draco doesn't blush, although he twitches a little. "But I smelled peppermint, before, and if you combine that with the murtlap essence in Dreamless Sleep, you can create an immunity to it. Which means normal Dreamless Sleep won't work on him anymore."

"A problem Professor Snape is aware of, Draco. He's attempting to modify the potion, or create something that works similarly as we speak."

Harry is completely aware that Draco and Dumbledore are having a conversation that is about him. He should probably be involved in it, or at least pay attention, and he wants to. As soon as Draco stops tracing patterns on his inner thigh, concentrating so hard on his own thoughts that Harry's pretty sure Draco has no idea what he's doing. Interrupting now might make him aware of it, and Harry wants to prevent that. It's the first time he can remember that Draco's initiated contact without requesting permission first.

"But the point of Dreamless Sleep," Draco says slowly, "is to keep away _all_ dreams. Even the good ones, which isn't very healthy. No one ever talks about the side effects of Dreamless Sleep, because it's difficult enough to make that people only take it rarely, but there are some. If you take away Harry's good dreams, he'll be just as crazy as if you don't take away the bad ones."

"Ah?"

The question is lilting, completely non-intrusive, but Draco still flushes. "It's, er, why I got in bed with him," he confesses shyly. His hands have stopped moving and his eyes seem glued to the blankets tangled around their legs, but he hasn't stopped touching Harry, either. "He started having a nightmare."

"Really? How interesting. You must tell Professor Snape everything you remember." There's something leading, almost manipulative about Dumbledore's words. It's the same kind of buried taunt that Draco levies at _Harry_, and the comparison is less shocking than it should have been; Dumbledore wears an old man's absentminded confusion the way Draco wears his father's icy disdain. "If I may, how did you coax Harry out of them? Or were you not able to?"

"There needs to be lava leaf," Draco mutters, obviously distracted by his own thoughts and unaware of Dumbledore's question. "But lava leaf doesn't mix with the chamomile without exploding. That _has_ to be part of the potion. Damn it. I need my potions book."

Normally, watching Draco chase down a problem is one of Harry's joys in life. It's hard to enjoy it, though, when Dumbledore's question still hangs in the air, Harry almost breathless as he waits for the answer. "Draco?" he asks. "How'd you stop my nightmares?"

"I told you," Draco says, eyes rolling in irritation. "I climbed into bed with you. Once you wrapped yourself around me like a bloody Devil's Snare, you fell back into real sleep. It was all perfectly revolting, really. You wouldn't let me back out of bed no matter how much I struggled, you overgrown lummox."

"Oh." He doesn't say thank you, because that would knock Draco out of this absently honest mood. Questions crowd in his mind about hundreds of things he knows Draco is not comfortable talking about and, for that reason, are never asked. If he tries, though, Harry knows that he'd get maybe one more answer before Draco snaps back to reality—and Harry does not want Draco to see the bright red flush he knows stains his cheeks.

Dumbledore's eyes are kind as he suggests, "Perhaps you would care to go and join Professor Snape?" His voice is diffident, as if he doesn't care whether Draco obeys or not, and so clearly manipulative that Harry has no idea why he's ever fallen for the Headmaster's tricks before. "I am certain he would not turn your assistance away. I believe he is working in his private office at this very moment."

Draco nods distractedly, already half-way out of the bed before awareness returns. His body jerks as he twists around, one leg still tangled in the bed clothes, eyes huge as they search for Harry's. "Er." It's odd, seeing him this vulnerable when others are in the room. Around Harry, Draco will give in to his insecurities. Never others. It's impossible to tell if he really trusts Dumbledore enough, or if he's so worried about Harry that he forgets to pretend. Or maybe something else entirely. "That is... "

Harry does not want Draco to go. Draco is his shield, his protection against the world Dumbledore clearly wants to draw him back into. Draco is... Harry shakes his head, concentrating on his resentment of Dumbledore, who is once again effortlessly manipulating Harry's life without his consent, because contemplating _Draco leaving_ makes his stomach clench painfully. "Go," he tells Draco, aiming for playful, hoping his voice doesn't sound as strained as he thinks it does. "I'll be all right."

Grey eyes grow sharp and cutting as Draco studies his face. Clearly, he doesn't believe Harry for a moment, but Harry concentrates on looking innocent and accepting and eventually Draco nods sharply. Blonde strands of hair, slightly stringy instead of its usual waterfall of softness, cling to his eyebrows. It makes him look cross-eyed. "Of course you will, once I get this potion made."

"Of course," Harry repeats, sincere.

Hastily donning a clean robe over his pyjamas, Draco tries on a smirk that doesn't quite succeed. "I'll have to. You're impossible if you don't sleep, Potter, and I'm certainly not risking contamination by spending the night in your dorm. Ugh. Gryffindor cooties."

The comment is odd, slightly stilted and lacking Draco's usual urban delivery, but the message is clear and Harry couldn't care less that Dumbledore is watching them with approval. Instead, he watches as Draco fusses with his collar, head tilting this way and that as he tries to find a position that minimizes the bruises on his neck. He does this without a mirror, a process so fascinating that Harry forgets to tell him not to bother: his lip is still split, red and raw looking, his eye still swollen enough that it does not open all the way. Everyone will know where he's been, if by some small chance they've forgotten. Harry doesn't think they will have. But he doesn't say that, either, because if he opens his mouth he knows he will say _stay_.

Finally satisfied—and somehow the reddened bruises on his neck are hidden enough that Harry has to look hard to see them—Draco puts on a smirk the way a knight lowers his metal helm and strides purposefully towards the door. Stops. Turns back, mask disappearing as anxious eyes find Harry's. "I'll forget something," he promises.

He _will_ forget something? Blinking, Harry forgets that he is trying not to speak and lets his teeth unclench. The words make no sense, but Dumbledore is nodding placidly, unconcerned and, apparently, understanding. "Of course," Dumbledore says mildly, before Harry finds enough breath to say something. "I will explain to Madam Pomfrey."

"Thank you, sir." Draco's robes flare as dramatically as Snape's as he stalks out of the infirmary. Better, really; Snape is a poor man's copy of Lucius Malfoy's icy demeanor and haughty arrogance, and no one does Lucius better than his own son.

The quiet grows after Draco's departure, as heavy and smothering as when Harry first woke. He pulls his knees to his chest, hugging them because he has to touch something and even at their closest, Dumbledore is not the type to touch.

"Harry—"

"I don't want to talk about it." In a way, they don't _need_ to talk about it. Harry is proficient enough at Occlumency to keep Voldemort from his mind, yes, but not Dumbledore. One look is enough, their eyes meeting and staring for longer than a breath of time, and Dumbledore can find out everything he wishes. But Harry does not look into Dumbledore's eyes, and Dumbledore does not ask him to. "I'm tired," he lies.

Dumbledore remains silent for long enough that Harry almost _does_ start to drift. His mind should be feverish, he knows, a roiling mass of conflicting needs. Once again he mentally promises Snape whatever the man should ask for, because all he feels is heavy and a little dull without Draco to focus on.

"I wish only," Dumbledore's soft voice interrupts his thoughts, "to tell you how proud I am of you. And that your strength is none of my doing. If anything, it is in _spite_ of me."

Harry doesn't understand that, and doesn't bother trying. He'll ask Draco, later. Draco loves word games almost as much as Dumbledore does and always glows when he finds a way to translate the message into something Harry understands. "Okay," he says, because some kind of response seems necessarily.

Dumbledore sighs and ponderously climbs to his feet. "Rest, Harry. With your permission, Poppy will create a pensieve of yesterday's memories that the Order may have a full debriefing without you being required to speak of it."

It's intrusive, but Harry nods gratefully. He doesn't want to have to revisit these memories, distant and dim though they are; worse, to do it in front of members of the Order. While Harry knows and cares for a great many of them, spending time as an active participant as opposed to Harry, their friend or adoptive son, is painful. The risk of death is high, the ruthlessness of necessity creating a rift not even hate can breech. "Later?"

"Today, Mister Potter. Or the memories will not be clear enough to be useful." Dumbledore reaches out a gnarled hand, the knuckles thick and twisted like the branches of the Whomping Willow, but never quite touches Harry. "There is a tranquility spell. It cannot make you sleep, but it will help you to drift."

_Sedative_, the Muggle portion of Harry's brain translates. It does that, sometimes, ten years of Muggle thinking occasionally still at odds with five years within the world of magic. He nods, though, because he doesn't want to think and remains still as Dumbledore whispers something hissing and low, sounding the way Draco's eyes often look, surrounding him in grey. It slips through his body, robbing him of control until he slumps back against the headboard, his mind spinning lazily as the patter of a summer's rain fills his ears. It is not sleep; Harry knows that he is conscious and if necessary, could break free of the cotton that's filled him from head to toe. Maybe, anyway. It's restful, though, and pleasant and without Draco, it is perfect.

Time is a meaningless concept like this, though he rouses somewhat when Madam Pomfrey enters the room. She holds something small and gold, and Harry vaguely thinks that it is fitting that his pensieve looks like a snitch. His heavy limbs move slowly, but he lies down when he is told, unconcerned when the gold is touched to his temple—it is warm and very hard against him—and Madam Pomfrey says words he does not understand. His vision swirls then, clarity vanishing the way it does when he removes his glasses, thankfully never coming into full focus as his memories are transferred.

"Rest, Mister Potter," Madam Pomfrey tells him, customary briskness vanished under sweet custard and stuffed animals with pouty eyes. "You must rest and allow your mind to catch up with your body."

Harry wants to tell her that he's fine, but he can't seem to convince his mouth to open or convince his lungs to fill up enough to create sounds. Madam Pomfrey doesn't seem to mind, patting his cheek gently. Harry doesn't notice when she leaves, only vaguely aware that the smell of mint leaves with her. He likes it, this grey empty nothingness, his mind resting fallow until voices from the hall finally penetrate.

"What do you mean, we aren't allowed to see him?" The voice is shrill and sick with worry. _Hermione_, Harry thinks.

"Yeah, Dumbledore said he was awake. C'mon, Madam Pomfrey, please. We just want to make sure he's okay." Belligerent and nervous, accusatory without ever quite crossing that uncrossable line, complete with a tremor Harry can recognize anywhere. _Ron_.

"I assure you, Mister Potter is quite well. Right now he is _sleeping_, something he needs a great deal of," Madam Pomfrey snaps. Hazily, Harry smiles, the pillow rough against his lips. She sounds like a dragon, fiercely protective and his mind supplies images of pure white scales with spectacles and terrifyingly large gouts of flame before settling back into grey.

"Please, Madam Pomfrey, we just want to see him." Anxious hints of little girl drown out the more familiar bossiness; for Harry, Hermione stops pretending to be a grown up and just is. It's sweet, or would be, if Harry could concentrate. "We won't wake him, I promise, you can watch us and everything. We just need to—you!"

The switch from solicitous begging to icy hatred is strong enough that Harry's body almost jerks in reaction. She is rarely this angry, and it frightens Harry to hear it now. This is safety, home, where Hermione is loving and kind; not rearing up like a bear prepared to defend its territory. His mind spins, and he cannot understand the increasingly loud voices until finally Madam Pomfrey orders Ron and Hermione to leave, or face detention.

"I'm not leaving Harry with _him_," Ron declares, stubbornness sounding strangely commanding. Controlling. It's like listening to Ron captain them during Quidditch practices, but there's no edge of laughter or uncertainty here. He sounds frighteningly like his mother and Harry doesn't understand why that makes him feel sad. "Make Malfoy leave, and we'll go."

"Mister Weasley! I assure you, Mister Potter is perfectly fine and in absolutely no danger! You and Miss Granger will leave _this instant_."

"But—"

"Now!" 

Ron's bourgeoning adulthood is nothing against Madam Pomfrey's scandalized ire and Harry can hear Ron and Hermione muttering angrily as they slowly slink away. It is only when the last of the grumbles fades does she say, "Honestly. As if I'd allow students to fight each other in _my_ infirmary. The nerve! Well. Never mind that. You may retrieve your cloak, Mister Malfoy, but be quick about it. I wish to close up the infirmary for the night."

"Yes, ma'am," that voice, crystalline bells chiming in a belfry, says. Harry wants more of that voice, craves it the way a child craves sweets, but it is lost in a swirling cacophony. He tries to separate the different sounds, identifying the swish or thud or murmured word, but not anything really useful. It's impossible to wake up more, either, and that hurts. He cannot bear to hear that voice, Draco's voice, only to miss the chance of seeing him. He wants the bed to dip, his body rolling slightly as the angles change, a warm body sliding against his own, arms wrapping firmly around him while a cool mouth trails wet kisses against a forehead that is startlingly warm.

It takes him a very long time to realize that this is not desire so strong it overwhelms him, but reality.

"I see you found your cloak, Mister Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey says, and suddenly Harry understands. An excuse to return to the infirmary. To Harry. Cool fingers brush over Harry's face and then Draco's. "You're obviously suffering a fever," she says mechanically, voice flat as she pays lip service. "You'll have to spend the night here, I'm afraid."

"Terrible thing," Draco says sleepily. Somehow, he has draped Harry's arms around him, head tucked comfortably underneath Harry's chin while their legs entwine together. Harry's body relaxes completely. His arm will fall asleep by morning, he knows, and does not care. This is safe and home and peace. He can handle pins and needles. "I'll probably have to miss breakfast, I'm so sick. Really, I'm near death here... "

If anything else is said, Harry does not know it. Draco's heat burns through Dumbledore's spell, but in the wake of receding grey flows black sleep that Harry does not try to fight. Draco is here, has come back without Harry asking, and will stay the night. He needs nothing else.


End file.
